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II  llli  III  ii  II    I  11  II 


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I 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


SELECTED  WRITINGS 
OF  WILLIAM  SHARP 


UNIFORM  EDITION 
ARRANGED  BY 
MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 

VOLUME     III 


PAPERS  CRITICAL 
AND  REMINISCENT 
BY   WILLIAM    SHARP 

SELECTED  AND 
ARRANGED  BY 
MRS. WILLIAM  SHARP 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  y  COMPANY 

1912 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


ON  MATTHEW  ARNOLD  i 

ROBERT  BROWNING  i8 

ROSSETTI  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE  38 
SOME  REMINISCENCES  OF  CHRISTINA 

ROSSETTI  66 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON  104 

SIR  EDWARD  BURNE- JONES  144 
PERSONAL   REMINISCENCES    OF 

WALTER  PATER  187 

"  MARIUS  THE  EPICUREAN  "  229 
THOMAS    HARDY    AND    HIS    NOVELS 

(1892)  241 
GEORGE   MEREDITH  :     AN  ESTIMATE 

OF    HIS    WORK    IN    PROSE    AND 

VERSE    (1899)  265 
ALGERNON      CHARLES     SWINBURNE 

(1901)  281 

EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON  (1903)  321 
THE     HOTEL     OF     THE     BEAUTIFUL 

STAR  348 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  373 


Vll 


ON  MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

When  Matthew  Arnold  died,  one  of  the 
greatest  of  his  contemporaries  said  of  him, 
"  There  goes  our  last  Greek." 

In  the  sense  in  which  it  was  uttered,  the 
saying  was  singularly  apt.  The  most 
English  of  Englishmen  was,  in  his  genius 
recognisably,  in  his  temperament  distinc- 
tively, and  in  his  natural  outlook  upon  the 
essential  aspects,  conditions,  and  facts  of 
life,  Hellenic.  Nevertheless,  Arnold  is,  in 
the  narrow  interpretation,  pre  -  eminently 
the  typical  English  writer  of  our  century. 
There  are  three  great  groups  into  which 
British  authors  segregate  :  the  distinctively 
Anglo-Saxon,  the  distinctively  Anglo-Celtic, 
and  the  distinctively  English.  The  third  is 
but  the  parochial  part  of  the  first  :  the  dis- 
engaged, the  national  in  the  strictly  local 
and  limited  sense.  In  our  own  day  Matthew 
Arnold  is  its  foremost  representative. 
Robert  Browning,  William  Morris,  and 
Thomas  Hardy  are  typical  exponents  of  the 
first  ;    Alfred  Tennyson,   Algernon   Charles 

III  I  A 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

Swinburne,  and  George  Meredith,  of  the 
second.  Of  the  third  there  are  few  eminent, 
though  innumerable  minor,  exemplars.  The 
point  of  view  is  here  of  less  importance  than 
the  approach.  No  one  could  have  a  saner, 
a  more  serene,  a  wider  outlook  than  Arnold 
had.  It  was  in  the  method  of  his  approach 
to  his  subjects  that  he  displayed  how  merely 
temperamental  was  his  Hellenism,  how 
accidental  his  inclination  towards  the  poles 
of  Athens  and  Paris,  how  saturated  with 
nationality  his  nature. 

The  poet,  the  high -priest  of  Culture,  the 
interpreter,  the  critic  of  literature  and 
thought,  the  educationist,  the  politician  : 
Matthew  Arnold  was  all  these.  As  a 
politician,  in  other  than  the  parliamentary 
sense,  and  as  an  interested  observer  in  the 
science  of  contemporary  sociology,  his  in- 
sight was  notably  deficient  and  his  point 
of  view  parochial  rather  than  imperial.  In 
all  his  best  work  the  poet  in  him  came  to  the 
rescue  of  "  the  son  of  Dr.  Arnold  "  :  as,  in 
his  life  as  a  man,  the  innate  Matthew 
Arnold  habitually  revealed  itself  through 
his  crust  of  caste-prejudice  and  family- 
pride.  He  was  made  up  of  contradictions 
as  are  all  strongly  individual  natures.  It 
would  be  difficult,  for  example,  to  indicate 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

any  great  writer  of  our  time  less  likely  to 
understand  the  depth  and  potency  of  the 
Celtic  element  in  our  national  life.  Yet, 
we  are  confronted  by  the  fact  that  it  was 
Matthew  Arnold  who  first  disclosed  to  his 
countrymen  not  only  the  beauty  and  the 
charm  of  Celtic  literature,  but  the  need  of  a 
more  intimate  understanding  of,  a  livelier 
sympathy  with,  Celtic  life  and  thought. 
Here  we  have  the  poet  :  whose  functions, 
as  ever,  are  those  of  the  seer  and  interpreter 
as  well  as  of  the  singer.  It  was  not  the 
outer,  the  accidental  Matthew  Arnold,  but 
the  man  of  genius — child  of  the  land  where 
there  is  no  nationality — who  saw  in  a  flash, 
from  a  leading  article  in  the  Times  in  dis- 
paragement of  the  Celtic  idea,  that  here,  in 
the  prevalent  unimaginative  insularity  of 
mind  and  judgment,  lies  our  real  difficulty 
in  the  government  of  Ireland. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  for  a  proper 
estimate  of  the  prose  writings  and  influence 
of  Matthew  Arnold.  It  is  more  than  likely 
that  much  of  his  argumentative  work  will 
be  found  to  be  of  its  time  and  for  its  time 
only  :  and  that  of  his  many  critical  and 
interpretative  studies  only  those  which  deal 
with  literature  per  se,  and  pre-eminently  the 
Celtic  Essay,  will  survive.     He  was,  above 

3 


Oil  Mattheiv  Arnold 

all  else — that  is,  as  an  essayist — an  illumin 
ator.  In  this  respect  he  was  more  akin  to 
Renan  than  to  his  acknowledged  master, 
Sainte-Beuve.  Sainte-Beuve's  strength  lies 
in  analysis  and  exposition.  Renan's  in  syn- 
thesis and  illumination.  It  was  to  Renan, 
moreover,  that  he  owed  his  sudden  and 
vivid  interest  in  Celtic  literature  :  so  that, 
indirectly,  it  is  to  Ernest  Renan  we  are 
indebted  for  the  famous  Celtic  Essay,  that 
unmistakable  offspring  of  La  Poesic  des 
Races  Celtiqucs.  Renan's  essay  in  France  and 
Germany,  and  Matthew  Arnold's  in  this 
country  and  in  America,  were  the  torches 
which  have  lit  so  many  Celtic  brands,  or,  let 
us  say,  were  the  two  winds  which  fanned  the 
Celtic  flame  which  is  now  one  of  the  most 
potent  influences  in  contemporary  literature. 
The  mainsprings  of  contemporary  Celticism 
(apart  from  philology)  are  in  Macpherson's 
Ossian  and  in  the  Mabinogion  of  Lady 
Charlotte  Guest  ;  but  the  influence  of  these 
was  waning,  along  with  the  great  romantic 
movement  which  they  had  helped  to  inspire 
or  sustain,  when,  in  France,  La  Poesie  dcs 
Races  Celtiqucs  appeared,  and,  about  ten 
years  later,  in  England,  Matthew  Arnold's 
famous  essay. 

Arnold's  prose  writings  are  familiar  to  all 

4 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

lovers  of  literature  for  their  lucidity  of 
thought,  their  pure  and  limpid  st^de,  and 
their  distinctive  charm.  Whether  or  not 
they  become  part  of  enduring  literature,  this 
is  certain  :  that  their  influence  has  been,  and 
probably  will  continue  to  be,  one  of  pro- 
found value.  Arnold's  moderation,  sanity, 
reticence,  and  dignity,  with  his  sunny 
geniality,  render  him  an  invaluable  model. 
He  will,  for  his  fellow-craftsmen  at  any  rate, 
and  indeed  for  all  who  love  literature, 
remain  one  of  the  most  tonic  writers  of  the 
Victorian  age. 

The  Celtic  essay,  however,  is  of  particular 
interest  :  for  here  is  the  prose-bridge  which  ^^ 
leads  us  to  the  poetry  of  Matthew  Arnold. 
All  lovers  of  poetry  know  the  remoteness 
of  Arnold  from  "  that  diviner  air  that  poets 
breathe,"  in  his  appreciations  of  Keats  and 
Shelley  :  but  here,  certainly,  we  recognise 
in  what  Dryden  calls  "the  other  harmony," 
the  voice  which  we  listen  to  with  so  much 
pleasure  when  it  comes  vivid  in  music  and 
light — the  voice  that  began  with  the  haunt- 
ing strains  of  The  Strayed  Reveller  and  closed 
in  the  anthem-tones  of  a  noble  ode. 

The  news  of  Matthew  Arnold's  death 
caused  a  thrill  of  poignant  regret,  not  only 
throughout    these    islands,    but    among    all 

5 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

English-speaking  peoples.  As  a  literary 
and  philosophical  critic  he  had  so  long  been 
one  of  the  most  familiar  figures  in  our  midst, 
he  had  so  greatly  moulded  and  influenced  the 
finer  minds  of  two  generations,  and  he  had 
so  identified  himself  with  the  great  con- 
servative movement — for  such  it  really 
was — of  culture  versus  radically  democratic 
tendencies,  that  to  many  it  seemed  as  if  the 
helmsman  had  left  the  vessel  which  he,  and 
he  alone,  had  been  able  skilfully  to  pilot. 
And  yet  Matthew  Arnold  was  not  in  the 
truest  sense  a  popular  man.  He  did  not 
influence,  and  never  could  have  influenced, 
the  mass  of  the  people.  He  wished  to  be  a 
social  regenerator,  but,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, he  always  stood  aloof  from, 
always  showed  his  superiority  to,  those 
whom  he  wished  to  help  and  uplift.  Two  or 
three  years  before  his  death  he  received  a 
letter  from  a  working  man,  in  which  it  was 
pointed  out  to  him  that  the  reason  why 
his  words  received  so  little  attention  among 
the  masses,  the  reason  why  his  gospel  of 
"  sweetness  and  light  "  was  so  much  ignored, 
was  that  both  man  and  gospel  seemed  too 
far  removed  from  common  humanity.  The 
author  of  Culture  and  Anarchy  could  not 
see  this.     He  had   always   been   so   keenly 

6 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

interested  in  everything  appertaining  to  the 
welfare  of  his  species  that  to  be  told  he  was 
a  mere  doctrinaire  was  something  he  did  not 
at  all   relish.      But  he  wrote  to  his  corre- 
spondent, and  assured    him    that    he    was 
mistaken,  adding  for  himself  that  the  longer 
he  lived,  and  the  more  he  thought  over  the 
problems  of  life,  the  more  fully  he  recognised 
that  the  aims  of  democracy  were  futile  and 
its  methods  harmful,  and  that  the  only  hope 
of    the    elevation    of    the    masses,    as    the 
hackneyed  phrase  runs,   lay   in   a  gradual 
growth    of    culture.     Arnold    omitted    to 
explain   what   he   meant    by   culture,   and 
probably    his    correspondent    remained    as 
much  in  the  dark  as  before.     This  omission  .^ 
was  very  characteristic  of  the  man.     He  was  ■, 
ever  addicted  to  over-confidence  in,  to  self- 
satisfaction  with,  words  which  he  stamped 
more  or  less  with  a  special  significance  of 
his  own—"  culture,"  "  sweetness,"  "  light," 
"  Philistine,"  and  the  like.     He  was  unable, 
latterly    at     any    rate,    to    perceive    that 
"  Culture  "  was  a  mere  empty  shibboleth  to 
many  people.     He  hoped  and  believed  that 
it  had  all  the  magic  properties  of  "  Open 
Sesame."     To  him  it  meant  so  much,  em- 
braced so  much,  that  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  it  could  to  some  signify  nothing 

7 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

in  particular— perhaps  at  most  a  good 
general  education.  It  was  this  intellectual 
aloofness,  combined  with  the  always  per- 
ceptible keenly  critical  spirit,  and  the 
prevailing  conception  of  him  as  a  serene 
but  unenthusiastic  mentor,  that  made 
him  admired  more  than  loved.  Henry 
James,  however,  has  given  expression  (I 
think  while  Matthew  Arnold  was  alive)  to 
the  views  of  his  more  ardent  admirers. 
"  They  owe,"  he  says — and  by  "  they  "  he 
means  all  discreet  and  discriminating  lovers 
of  contemporary  literature — "  they  owe  a 
debt  of  gratitude  for  his  admirable  example, 
for  having  placed  the  standard  of  successful 
expression,  of  literary  feeling  and  good 
manners,  so  high.  They  never  tire  of  him — 
they  read  him  again  and  again.  They  think 
the  wit  and  humour  of  Friendship's  Garland 
the  most  delicate  possible,  the  luminosity  of 
Culture  and  Anarchy  almost  dazzling,  the 
eloquence  of  such  a  paper  as  the  article  on 
Lord  Falkland  in  the  Mixed  Essays  irresis- 
tible. They  find  him,  in  a  word,  more  than 
any  one  else,  the  happily  proportioned,  the 
truly  distinguished  man  of  letters.  When 
there  is  a  question  of  his  efficacy,  his  in- 
fluence, it  seems  to  me  enough  to  ask  one's 
self  what  we  should  have  done  without  him, 

8 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

to  think  how  much  we  should  have  missed 
him,  and  how  he  has  salted  and  seasoned 
our  public  conversation.  In  his  absence  the 
whole  tone  of  discussion  would  have  seemed 
more  stupid,  more  literal.  Without  his 
irony  to  play  over  its  surface,  to  clip  it  here 
and  there  of  its  occasional  fustiness,  the  life 
of  our  Anglo-Saxon  race  would  present  a 
much  greater  appearance  of  insensibility." 

Having  quoted  from  Henry  James,  I 
am  tempted  to  quote  further,  and  select 
this  fine  and  just  estimate  of  Arnold  as  a 
poet  : 

"  Splendour,  music,  passion,  breadth  of 
movement  and  rhythm,  we  find  in  him  in  no 
great  abundance  ;  what  we  do  find  is  high 
distinction  of  feeling  (to  use  his  own  word), 
a  temperance,  a  kind  of  modesty  of  expres- 
sion, which  is  at  the  same  time  an  artistic 
resource — the  complexion  of  his  work  ;  and 
a  remarkable  faculty  for  touching  the  chords 
which  connect  our  feelings  with  the  things 
that  others  have  done  and  spoken.  In 
other  words,  though  there  is  in  Mr.  Arnold's 
poems  a  constant  reference  to  nature,  or  to 
Wordsworth,  which  is  almost  the  same 
thing  (sic  /),  there  is  even  a  more  implicit 
reference  to  civilisation,  literature,  and  the 
intellectual  experience  of  man.     He  is  the 

q 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

poet  of  the  man  of  culture,  that  accom- 
plished being  whom  he  long  ago  held  up 
for  our  consideration.  Above  all,  he  is  the 
poet  of  his  age,  of  the  moment  in  which  we 
live,  of  our  "  modernity,"  as  the  new  school 
of  criticism  in  France  gives  us  perhaps 
licence  to  say.  When  he  speaks  of  the 
past,  it  is  with  the  knowledge  which  only 
our  own  time  has  of  it.  With  its  cultivated 
simplicity,  its  aversion  to  cheap  ornament, 
its  slight  abuse  of  meagreness  for  distinc- 
tion's sake,  his  verse  has  a  kind  of  minor 
magic  and  always  goes  to  the  point — the 
particular  ache,  or  regret,  or  conjecture,  to 
which  poetry  is  supposed  to  address  itself.  It 
rests  the  mind,  after  a  good  deal  of  the  other 
poetical  work  of  the  day — it  rests  the  mind, 
and  I  think  I  may  add  that  it  nourishes  it." 

Certainly,  his  indirect  influence — generally 
in  the  instance  of  great  writers,  more  potent 
than  a  more  immediate  one — has  been  almost 
incalculable.  Through  other  intellects,  by 
channels  innumerable,  he  materially  helped 
to  mould  contemporary  thought,  not  only 
in  matters  literary,  but  in  social  ethics  and 
religion.  No  other  critic,  and  perhaps  few 
poets  save  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  have 
so  fully  realised  and  endorsed  the  observa- 
tion of  Aristotle,  that   "  the  superiority  of 

10 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

poetry  over  history  consists  in  its  possessing 
a  higher  truth  and  a  higher  seriousness." 

"  The  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  know- 
ledge "  :    that  is  what  Wordsworth  called 
poetry,  and  what  Matthew  Arnold  quotes 
with  keen  appreciation,  in  a  famous  essay. 
But  Arnold  speaks  even  more  emphatically 
than  Wordsworth  :    he  claims  for  poetry  a 
supreme  destiny  as  well  as  a  high  function 
— "  the   spirit   of   comfort   for   the   coming 
generations."     The    future    of    poetry,    he 
wrote,   is   immense,*    "  because   in   poetry, 
where  it  is  worthy  of  its  high  destinies,  our 
race,  as  time  goes  on,  will  find  an  ever  surer 
and  surer  stay.     There  is  not  a  creed  which 
is   not   shaken,    not   an   accredited   dogma 
which  is  not  shown  to  be  questionable,  not 
a  received  tradition  which  does  not  threaten 
to  dissolve.     Our  religion  has  materialised 
itself  in  the  fact,  in  the  supposed  fact  ;    it 
has  attached  its  emotion  to  the  fact,  and 
now  the  fact  is  failing  it.     But  for  poetry 
the  idea  is  everything  ;    the  rest  is  a  world 
of  illusion,   of   divine   illusion.     Poetr}^   at- 
taches its  emotion  to  the  idea  ;    the  idea  is 
the  fact.     The  strongest  part  of  our  religion 
to-day    is   its  unconscious    poetry.     .     .     . 

*  In  his  General  Introduction  to  Ward's  English 
Poets. 

II 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

Without  poetry,  our  science  will  appear 
incomplete  ;  and  most  of  what  now  passes 
with  us  for  religion  and  philosophy  will  be 
replaced  by  poetry.  Science,  I  say,  will 
appear  incomplete  without  it.  For  finely 
and  truly  does  Wordsworth  call  poetry 
'  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the 
countenance  of  all  science,'  and  what  is  a 
countenance  without  its  expression  ?  ,  .  . 
The  day  will  come  when  we  shall  wonder  at 
ourselves  for  having  trusted  to  them,  for 
having  taken  them  seriously  ;  and  the 
more  we  perceive  their  hollowness,  the  more 
we  shall  prize  '  the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  knowledge  '  offered  to  us  by  poetry." 

Again,  in  his  beautiful  essay  on  Maurice 
de  Guerin,  he  remarks  :  "  Poetry  interprets 
in  two  ways  :  it  interprets  by  expressing 
with  magical  felicity  the  physiognomy  and 
movement  of  the  outer  world,  and  it  in- 
terprets by  expressing,  with  inspired  con- 
viction, the  ideas  and  laws  of  the  inward 
world  of  man's  moral  and  spiritual  nature. 
In  other  words,  poetry  is  interpretative  both 
by  having  natural  magic  in  it,  and  by  having 
moral  profundity." 

Broadly  speaking,  Matthew  Arnold  is  an 
interpreter  of  the  moral  order  rather  than  of 
the  outer  beauty  of  the  world.     His  poetry 

12 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

does  not  wholly  lack  natural  magic  :  on  the 
contrary  it  lives  and  will  live  by  its  magic, 
its  "minor  magic,"  as  Henry  James  calls 
it — but  it  is  the  magic  of  a  brain  mirroring  a 
perfect  flame,  rather  than  itself  aflame. 
There  are  times  when  he  is  all  poet  ;  when 
the  thought  in  the  mind,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  thought,  and  the  expression  of  the 
thought,  are  at  once  rhythmic  and  irradiate 
in  that  white  light  of  the  mind  wherein 
the  misapprehended  realities  of  the  common- 
place become  the  glowing  and  convincing 
realities  of  the  imagination.  On  the  whole, 
however,  Arnold's  kinship  is  not  with 
Keats,  with  Coleridge,  or  with  Shelley,  but 
with  Wordsworth.  He  is  of  those  who  are 
informed  by  the  wonder  and  the  mystery 
of  life,  rather  than  of  those  who  transform 
the  physiognomy  of  common  life  to  an 
expression  of  mystery  and  wonder.  But 
throughout  all  his  work  in  verse  a  noble 
spirit  pervades  :  a  spirit  that  loves  measure 
and  reserve,  and  prefers  cool  words  to  words 
of  flame.  If,  sometimes  ;  if,  often,  we  miss 
the  fire,  and  are  dazzled  only  by  a  brilhant 
and  wonderful  reflection,  we  are  seldom  if 
ever  misled  by  mere  artificial  blaze.  Not 
his,  to  quote  Dryden's  fine  line,  a  "man- 
hood   long    misled    by    wandering    fires." 

13 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

Dignity,  serenity,  a  quiet  music,  an  occa- 
sional poignant  cry,  a  rare  sudden  break  into 
magical  indeliberate  song,  all  this  we  find 
in  his  poetry.  He  is  of  the  great  ones  of  our 
time,  but  by  virtue  of  his  lofty  poetic  sanity 
rather  than  by  his  music  or  his  natural 
magic.  Needless  to  recall  the  many  pas- 
sages in  his  poems  which  seem  to  controvert 
this.  All  lovers  of  his  poetry  can  adduce 
example  after  example.  It  is  high  praise 
of  any  poet  to  say  that  we  cannot  imagine 
the  concert  of  the  singers  of  his  age  complete 
without  him  :  and  this,  certainly,  may  be 
said  of  Arnold.  We  cannot  now,  in  the 
realm  of  the  imagination,  conceive  the 
Victorian  epoch,  without  the  author  of  some 
of  the  deepest  and  most  beautiful  utterances 
of  any  poet  of  our  time.  He  is,  however, 
rather  an  impassioned  Marcus  Aurelius  than 
a  Catullus  or  a  Heine,  than  a  Keats  or  a 
Shelley  or  a  Burns.  And,  after  all,  Matthew 
Arnold  would  certainly  have  chosen  to  be  a 
Marcus  Aurelius,  wrought  by  poetic  vision 
and  emotion  to  poetic  music,  rather  than  to 
be  a  Heine  or  a  Shelley  or  a  Burns.  Nor  is 
there  any  disparagement  in  this  :  it  is 
simply  a  statement,  which  he  would  have 
been  the  first  to  accept.  For  with  him  the 
moral  basis   of  poetry  was   an  inalienable 

14 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

necessity  :  to  sing  out  of  ecstasy  of  joy  or 
pain  was  not  enough  :  not  only  must  moral 
law  be  the  central  fire,  but  the  poet  himself 
must  be  innately  attuned  to  his  own  high 
music.  Alas,  he  found  Keats,  and  Shelley, 
and  Burns  wanting  :  not  discerning,  for  all 
his  wisdom  and  apostolic  serenity,  that 
these  "  faithful  failures  "  came  nearer,  both 
as  men  and  poets,  to  the  Burning  Bush 
wherefrom  leaps  to  genius  the  immortal 
flame,  than  all  the  strenuous  and  wise  folk 
whose  feet  have  gone  not  astray.  If, 
oftener,  he  had  himself  been  a  strayed 
reveller  !  Then,  oftener,  we  should  have 
had  the  wilder,  sweeter  note  we  hear  in 

Not  here,  O  Apollo, 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee  : 

But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea 

Yet  it  is  needful  to  remember  that  in  the 
sphere  of  poetry,  as  in  the  domain  of  the 
spiritual,  "  in  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions."  It  is  Matthew  Arnold's  dis- 
tinction, that  his  is  one  of  the  most  vigorous 
and  beautiful  minds  that,  finding  expression 
in  rhythmic  beauty,  have  confronted  the 
narrowing  horizons  of  Hfe  :  that  he  confronts 
them  with  fearlesss  outlook,  with  noble 
resignation,    with    an    austere    hopefulness 

15 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

which,  to  many  scarce  worth  the  sacrificial 
pain  wherewith  that  remnant  is  won  or 
maintained,  is  at  least  sanely  measured  and 
sanely  controlled. 

Distinction  ;  that  is  the  paramount  quality 
of  the  poetry  of  Matthew  Arnold.  By 
virtue  of  this  rarest  essence  his  work  will 
live,  when,  mayhap,  the  more  flamboyant, 
the  more  impulsive,  the  more  perilously 
alive  work  of  some  of  his  greatest 
contemporaries  shall  slowly  pass  into 
a  long  sleep  wherein  the  once  quick 
pulse  shall  seem  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
at  last  the  heart-throb  be  no  longer 
audible. 

Of  this  quality,  as  he  remarks  in  his 
essay  on  Eugenie  de  Guerin,  the  world  is 
impatient.  "  It  chafes  against  it,  rails  at  it, 
insults  it,  hates  it  ; — it  ends  by  receiving 
its  influence,  and  b}^  undergoing  its  law. 
This  quality  at  last  inexorably  corrects  the 
world's  blunders,  and  fixes  the  world's  ideals. 
It  procures  that  the  popular  poet  shall  not 
finally  pass  for  a  Pindar,  nor  the  popular 
historian  for  a  Tacitus,  nor  the  popular 
preacher  for  a  Bossuet.  To  the  circle  of 
spirits  marked  by  this  rare  quality,  Maurice 
and  Eugenie  de  Guerin  belong  ;  they  will 
take   their   place   in   the   skv   which    these 

i6 


On  Matthew  Arnold 

inhabit,  and  shine  close  to  one  another, 
lucida  sidera."  Among  these  shining  stars, 
set  where  the  constellations  flame  with  a 
whiter  light,  is  the  rare  and  fine  spirit  who 
wrote  these  lines. 

1896 


in  17  B 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

On  the  night  of  Browning's  death  a  new 
star  suddenly  appeared  in  Orion.  The 
coincidence  is  suggestive  if  we  hke  to  indulge 
in  the  fancy  that  in  that  constellation — 

No  more  subjected  to  the  change  or  chance 
Of  the  unsteady  planets 

gleam  those  other  "  abodes  where  the 
Immortals  are."  Certainly,  a  wandering 
fire  has  passed  away  from  us.  Is  the  flame 
of  genius  quenched  by  death,  or  does  it 
burn  elsewhere  ?  Does  it  live  still  in  the 
myriad  conflagrations  it  has  litten  ? 

Such  questions  cannot  meanwhile  be  solved. 
Our  eyes  are  still  confused  with  the  light, 
with  that  ardent  flame,  as  we  knew  it  here. 
But  this  we  know,  it  was  indeed  "  a  central 
fire  descending  upon  many  altars."  These, 
though  touched  with  but  a  spark  of  the 
immortal  principle,  bear  enduring  testimony. 
And  what  testimony  !  How  heartfelt  : 
happily  also  how  widespread,  how  stimu- 
lative I 

i8 


Robert  Brownins' 


a 


But  the  time  must  come  when  the  poet's 
personahty  will  have  the  remoteness  of 
tradition  :  when  our  perplexed  judgments 
will  be  as  a  tale  of  sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing.  It  is  impossible  for  any  student 
of  literature,  for  any  interested  reader,  not 
to  indulge  in  some  forecast  as  to  what  rank 
in  the  poetic  hierarchy  Robert  Browning 
will  ultimately  occupy.  The  commonplace 
as  to  the  impossibility  of  prognosticating  the 
ultimate  slow  decadence,  or  slower  rise,  or, 
it  may  be,  sustained  suspension,  of  a  poet's 
fame,  is  often  insincere,  and  but  an  excuse 
of  indolence.  To  dogmatise  were  the  height 
of  presumption  as  well  as  of  folly  :  but  to 
forego  speculation,  based  upon  complete 
present  knowledge,  for  an  idle  contentment 
with  narrow  horizons,  were  perhaps  foolisher 
still.  But  assuredly  each  must  perforce  be 
content  with  his  own  prevision.  None  can 
answer  yet  for  the  generality,  whose  de- 
cisive franchise  will  elect  a  fit  arbiter  in  due 
time. 

When  Browning's  enormous  influence  upon 
the  spiritual  and  mental  life  of  our  day — 
an  influence  ever  shaping  itself  to  wise  and 
beautiful  issues — shall  have  lost  much  of 
its  immediate  import,  there  surely  always  will 
be  discerned  in  his  work  a  formative  energy 

19 


Robert  Browning 

whose  resultant  is  pure  poetic  gain.  It  is 
as  the  poet  he  will  live  :  not  merely  as 
the  "  novel  thinker  in  verse."  Logically, 
his  attitude  as  "  thinker  "  is  unimpressive. 
it  is  the  attitude,  as  I  think  some  one  has 
pointed  out,  of  acquiescence  with  codified 
morality.  In  one  of  his  Causeries,  the  keen 
French  critic  Sainte-Beuve  has  a  remark 
upon  the  great  Bossuet,  which  may  with 
singular  aptness  be  repeated  of  Browning  : 
"  His  is  the  Hebrew  genius  extended, 
fecundated  by  Christianity,  and  open  to  all 
the  acquisitions  of  the  understanding,  but 
retaining  some  degree  of  sovereign  inter- 
diction, and  closing  its  vast  horizon  pre- 
cisely where  its  light  ceases."  Browning 
cannot,  or  will  not,  face  the  problem  of  the 
future  except  from  the  basis  of  assured 
continuity  of  individual  existence.  He  is 
so  much  in  love  with  life,  for  life's  sake, 
that  he  cannot  even  credit  the  possibility 
of  incontinuity  ;  his  assurance  of  eternity 
in  another  world  is  at  least  in  part  due  to 
his  despair  at  not  being  eternal  in  this.  He 
is  so  sure,  that  the  intellectually  scrupulous 
detect  the  odours  of  hypotheses  amid  the 
sweet  savour  of  indestructible  assurance. 
Schopenhauer  says,  in  one  of  those  recently 
found    Annotations    of    his    which    are    so 

20 


Robert  Browning 

characteristic  and  so  acute,  "  that  which  is 
called  '  mathematical  certainty  '  is  the  cane 
of  a  blind  man  without  a  dog,  or  equilibrium 
in  darkness."     Browning  would  sometimes 
have  us  accept  the  evidence  of  his  "  cane  " 
as    all-sufficient.     He    does    not    entrench 
himself  among  conventions  :    for  he  already 
finds  himself   within   the   fortified  lines   of 
convention,   and   remains   there.      Thus   is 
true    what  Mr.   Mortimer  says  in    an    ad- 
mirable critique  :    "  His  position  in  regard 
to  the  thought  of  the  age  is  paradoxical,  if 
not  inconsistent.     He  is  in  advance  of  it 
in  every  respect  but  one,  the  most  important 
of  all,  the  matter  of  fundamental  principles  ; 
in  these  he  is  behind  it.     His  processes  of 
thought  are  often  scientific  in  their  precision 
of  analysis  ;  the  sudden  conclusion  which  he 
imposes  upon  them  is  transcendental  and 
inept."      Browning's     conclusions,      which 
harmonise    so   well    with    our    haphazard 
previsionings,     are      sometimes      so      dis- 
astrously  facile    that     they     exercise     an 
insurrectionary  influence.     They    occasion- 
ally   suggest     that     wisdom     of     Gotham 
which    is    ever    ready    to    postulate     the 
certainty   of    a  fulfilment  because    of   the 
existence    of    a    desire.       It    is    this   that 
vitiates  so  much   of   his   poetic   reasoning. 

21 


Robert  Browning 

Truth  may  ring  regnant  in  ttie  lines  of 
Abt  Vogler  : 

A  nd  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 
For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ? 

but,  unfortunately,  the  conclusion  is,  in 
itself,  illogical. 

Most  fervently  Browning  believed  that 

Haply  for  us  the  ideal  dawn  shall  break  .  .  . 
And  set  our  pulse  in  tune  with  moods  divine — 

though  co-equally,  in  the  necessity  of 
"  making  man  sole  sponsor  of  himself." 
He  had  that  profound  inquietude  which 
Sainte-Beuve  says  "  attests  a  moral  nature 
of  high  rank,  and  a  mental  nature  stamped 
with  the  zeal  of  an  archangel  "  ;  but  he  saw, 
believed  in,  held  to  nothing  short  of  the 
return  movement,  for  one  and  all,  "  towards 
an  illustrious  origin." 

It  seems  but  a  day  or  two  ago  that  the 
present  writer  heard  from  the  lips  of  the 
dead  poet  a  mockery  of  death's  vanity — a 
brave  assertion  of  the  glory  of  life.  "  Death, 
death  !  It  is  this  harping  on  death  I  despise 
so  much,"  he  remarked  with  emphasis 
of  gesture  as  well  as  of  speech, — "  this  idle 
and  often  cowardly  as  well  as  ignorant 
harping  !     Why  should  we  not  change  like 


Robert  Browning 

everything  else  ?  In  fiction,  in  poetry,  in 
so  much  of  both,  French  as  well  as  Enghsh, 
and,  I  am  told,  in  American  art  and  htera- 
ture,  the  shadow  of  death— call  it  what  you 
will,  despair,  negation,  indifference — is  upon 
us.  But  what  fools  who  talk  thus  !  Why, 
aniico  mio,  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  death 
is  life,  just  as  our  daily,  our  momentarily 
dying  body  is  none  the  less  ahve  and  ever 
recruiting  new  forces  of  existence.  Without 
death,  which  is  our  crapy,  churchyardy 
word  for  change,  for  growth,  there  could  be 
no  prolongation  of  that  which  we  call  hfe. 
Pshaw  !  it  is  foohsh  to  argue  upon  such 
a  thing  even.  For  myself  I  deny  death  as  an 
end  of  everything.  Never  say  of  me  that 
I  am  dead  !  " 

Browning's  habitual  outlook  towards  Death 
as  the  Gate  of  Life  is  not  a  novel  one.  The 
attitude  is  not  so  much  that  of  the  daring 
pioneer  as  the  sedate  assurance  of  "the 
oldest  inhabitant."  It  is  of  good  hap,  of 
welcome  significance  :  none  the  less  there  is 
an  aspect  of  our  mortahty  of  which  the  poet's 
evasion  is  uncompromising  and  absolute. 
I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  Mr.  Mortimer's 
noteworthy  words  hereupon,  in  connection, 
moreover,  with  Browning's  artistic  relation 
to  Sex,  that  other  great  Protagonist  in  the 

23 


Robert  Browning 

relentless  duel  of  Humanity  with  Circum- 
stance.    "  The  final  inductive  hazard  he  de- 
clines for  himself  ;  his  readers  may  take  it  if 
they  will.    It  is  part  of  the  insistent  and  per- 
verse ingenuity  which  we  display  in  masking 
with  illusion  the  more  disturbing  elements 
of  life.     Veil  after  veil   is  torn  down,  but 
seldom    before    another    has    been    slipped 
behind   it,    until   we    acquiesce   without    a 
murmur  in  the  concealment  that  we  our- 
selves have  made.     Two  facts  thus  carefully 
shrouded    from    full    vision    by    elaborate 
illusion  conspicuously  round  in  our  Hves — 
the  hfe-giving  and  Hfe-destroying  elements, 
Sex  and  Death.     We  are  compelled  to  occa- 
sional physiologic  and  economic  discussion 
of  the  one,  but  we  shrink  from  recognising 
the  full  extent  to  which  it  bases  the  whole 
social  fabric,  carefully  concealing  its  insur- 
rections, and  ignoring  or  misreading  their 
lessons.     The  other,  in  certain  aspects,  we  are 
compelled  to  face,  but  to  do  it  we  tipple 
on  illusions,  from  our  cradle  upwards,   in 
dread  of   the  coming  grave,   purchasing  a 
drug  for  our  poltroonery  at  the  expense  of  our 
sanity.     We    uphold    our    wayward    steps 
with  the  promises  and  the  commandments 
for  crutches,  but  on  either  side  of  us  trudge 
the  shadow  Death  and  the  bacchanal  Sex, 

24 


Robert  Browning 

and  we  mumble  prayers  against  the  one, 
while  we  scourge  ourselves  for  leering 
at  the  other.  On  one  only  of  these  can 
Browning  be  said  to  have  spoken  with  novel 
force — the  relations  of  sex,  which  he  has 
treated  with  a  subtlety  and  freedom,  and 
often  with  a  beauty,  unapproached  since 
Goethe.  On  the  problem  of  Death,  except 
in  masquerade  of  robes  and  wings,  his 
eupeptic  temperament  never  allowed  him 
to  dwell.  He  sentimentalised  where  Shake- 
speare thought."  Browning's  whole  attitude 
to  the  Hereafter  is  different  from  that  of 
Tennyson  only  in  that  the  latter  "  faintly," 
while  he  strenuously  "  trusts  the  larger 
hope."  To  him  all  credit,  that,  standing 
upon  the  frontiers  of  the  Past,  he  can 
implicitly  trust  the  Future. 

High-hearted  surely  he  : 

But  bolder  they  who  first  off-cast 

Their  moorings  from  the  habitable  Past, 

The  teacher  may  be  forgotten,  the  prophet 
may  be  hearkened  to  no  more,  but  a  great 
poet's  utterance  is  never  temporal,  having 
that  in  it  which  conserves  it  against  the 
antagonism  of  time,  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
literary  ideals.  What  range,  what  extent 
of   genius  !      As    Frederick   Wedmore    has 

25 


Robert  Browning 

well  said,  "  Browning  is  not  a  book — he  is  a 
literature." 

But  that  he  will  "stand  out  gigantic" 
in  mass  of  imperishable  work,  in  that  far-off 
day,  is  not  so  readily  credible.  His  poetic 
shortcomings  seem  too  essential  to  permit 
of  this.  That  fatal  excess  of  cold  over  emo- 
tive thought,  of  thought  that,  however 
profound,  incisive,  or  scrupulously  clear, 
is  not  yet  impassioned,  is  a  fundamental 
defect  of  his.  It  is  the  very  impetuosity 
of  this  mental  energy  to  which  is  due  the 
miscalled  obscurity  of  much  of  Browning's 
work — miscalled,  because,  however  remote 
in  his  allusions,  however  pedantic  even, 
he  is  never  obscure  in  his  thought.  His 
is  that  "  palace  infinite  which  darkens  with 
excess  of  light."  But  mere  excess  in  itself 
is  nothing  more  than  symptomatic.  Brown- 
ing has  suffered  more  from  intellectual 
exploitation  than  any  writer.  It  is  a 
ruinous  process — for  the  poet.  "He  so 
well  repays  intelligent  study."  That  is  it, 
unfortunately.  There  are  many,  like  the 
old  Scotch  lady  who  attempted  to  read 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  who  think  they 
have  become  "  daft  "  when  they  encounter 
a  passage  such  as,  for  example, 


26 


Robert  Browning 

Rivals,  who  .   .  . 
Turned,  from  Bocafoli's  stark-naked  psalms, 
To  Plara's  sonnets  spoilt  by  toying  with, 
'As  knaps  that  stud  some  almug  to  the  pith 
'Pricked  for  gum,  wry  thence,    and  crinkldd 

worse 
'  Than  pursed  eyelids  of  a  river-horse 
•  Sunning  himself  o'  the  slime  when  whirrs  the 

breeze — 
Gad-fly,  that  is. 

The  old  lady  persevered  with  Carlyle,  and, 
after  a  few  days,  found  "  she  was  nae  sae 
daft,   but    that   she   had   tackled   a   varra 
dee -fee -cult    author."     What    would    even 
that  indomitable  student  have  said  to  the 
above  quotation,  and  to  the  poem  whence 
it  comes  ?     To  many  it  is  not  the  poetry, 
but  the  difficulties,  that  are  the  attraction. 
They  rejoice,  after  long  and  frequent  dip- 
pings, to  find  their  plumm-et,  almost  lost  in 
remote    depths,     touch    bottom.     Enough 
"meaning"   has   been  educed  from  Childe 
Roland,  to  cite  but  one  instance,  to  start 
a   School  of   Philosophy   with  :     though   it 
happens  that  the  poem  is  an  imaginative 
fantasy,  written  in  one  day.     Worse  still, 
it  was  not  inspired  by  the  mystery  of  exis- 
tence, but  by  "  a  red  horse  with  a  glaring 
eye  standing  behind  a  dun  one  on  a  piece 
of  tapestry  that  used  to  hang  in  the  poet's 

27 


Robert  Browning 

drawing-room."  *     Of   all   his   faults,  how- 
ever, the  worst  is  that  jugglery,  that  inferior 
legerdemain,  with  the  elements  of  the  beauti- 
ful   in    verse ;     most    obvious    in    Sordello, 
in  portions  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  and  in 
so  many  of  the  later  poems.     There  are,  in 
poetry,  in  any  art,  faults  which  are  like  the 
larvae  within  certain  vegetable  growths  :  soon 
or  late  they  will  destroy  their  environment, 
before  they  perish  themselves.    Browning, 
though  so  pre-eminent  in  that  science  of  the 
percipient  in  the  allied  arts  of  painting  and 
music,  wherein  he  found  the  unconventional 
Shelley  so  missuaded  by  convention,  seemed 
ever  more  alert  to  the  substance  than  to  the 
manner    of    poetry.     In    a    letter    of    Mrs. 
Browning's  she  alludes  to  a  friend's  "  melo- 
dious   feeling "    for    poetry.     Possibly    the 
phrase  was  accidental,  but  it  is  significant. 
To  inhale  the  vital  air  of  poetry  we  must 
love  it,   not  merely  find  it   "  interesting," 
"  suggestive,"  "  soothing,"  "  stimulative  "  : 
in   a   word,   we   must   have   a    "  melodious 
feeling  "  for  poetry  before  we  can  deeply 
*  One  account  says  Childe  Roland  was  written 
in  three  days  ;    another,  that  it  was  composed  in 
one.     Browning's    rapidity    in    composition    was 
extraordinary.     The    Return    of   the    Druses    was 
written  in  five  days,  an  act  a  day  ;    so,  also,  was 
the  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon. 

28 


Robert  Browning 

enjoy  it.  Browning,  who  has  so  often 
compelled  from  his  lyre  melodies  and 
harmonies  of  transcendent,  though  novel, 
beauty,  was  too  frequently,  during  compo- 
sition, without  this  melodious  feeling  of 
which  his  wife  speaks.  The  distinction 
between  literary  types  such  as  Browning 
or  Balzac  on  the  one  hand,  and  Keats  or 
Gustave  Flaubert  on  the  other,  is  that  with 
the  former  there  exists  a  reverence  for  the 
vocation  and  a  relative  indifference  to  the 
means,  in  themselves — and,  with  the  latter, 
a  scrupulous  respect  for  the  mere  means  as 
well  as  for  that  to  which  they  conduce. 
The  poet  who  does  not  love  words  for  them- 
selves, as  an  artist  loves  any  chance  colour 
upon  his  palette,  or  as  the  musician  any 
vagrant  tone  evoked  by  a  sudden  touch 
in  idleness  or  reverie,  has  not  entered  into 
the  full  inheritance  of  the  sons  of  Apollo. 
The  writer  cannot  aim  at  beauty,  that 
which  makes  literature  and  art,  without 
this  heed — without,  rather,  this  creative 
anxiety  :  for  it  is  certainly  not  enough, 
as  some  one  has  said,  that  language  should 
be  used  merely  for  the  transportation  of 
intelligence,  as  a  wheelbarrow  carries  brick. 
Of  course.  Browning  is  not  persistently 
neglectful  of  this  fundamental  necessity  for 

29 


Robert  Browning 

the  literary  artist.  He  is  often  as  masterly 
in  this  as  in  other  respects.  But  he  is  not 
always,  not  often  enough,  alive  to  the  para- 
mount need.  He  writes  with  "  the  verse 
being  as  the  mood  it  paints  "  :  but,  un- 
fortunately, the  mood  is  often  poetically 
unformative.  He  had  no  passion  for  the 
quest  for  seductive  forms.  Too  much  of  his 
poetry  has  been  born  prematurely.  Too 
much  of  it,  indeed,  has  not  died  and  been 
born  again — for  all  immortal  verse  is  a 
poetic  resurrection.  Perfect  poetry  is  the 
deathless  part  of  mortal  beauty.  The  great 
artists  never  perpetuate  gross  actualities, 
though  they  are  the  supreme  realists.  It 
is  Schiller,  I  think,  who  says,  in  effect,  that 
to  live  again  in  the  serene  beauty  of  art,  it 
is  needful  that  things  should  first  die  in 
reality.  Thus  Browning's  dramatic  method, 
even,  is  sometimes  disastrous  in  its  untruth, 
as  in  Caliban's  analytical  reasoning — an 
initial  absurdity,  as  Mr.  Berdoe  has  pointed 
out,  adding  epigrammatically,  "  Caliban  is  a 
savage,  with  the  introspective  powers  of  a 
Hamlet,  and  the  theology  of  an  evangelical 
Churchman."  Not  only  Caliban,  but  several 
other  of  Browning's  personages  (Aprile,  Egla- 
mour,  &c.)  are  what  Goethe  calls  schwan- 
kende  Gestalten,  mere  "  wavering  images." 

30 


Robert  Browning 

Montaigne,  in  one  of  his  essays,  says  that 
to  stop  gracefully  is  sure  proof  of  high  race 
in  a  horse  :  certainly  to  stop  in  time  is 
imperative  upon  the  poet.  Of  Browning 
may  be  said  what  Poe  wrote  of  another, 
that  his  genius  was  too  impetuous  for  the 
minuter  technicalities  of  that  elaborate 
art  so  needful  in  the  building  up  of  monu- 
ments for  immortality.  But  has  not  a 
greater  than  Poe  declared  that  "  what 
distinguishes  the  artist  from  the  amateur  is 
architectoniki  in  the  highest  sense ;  that 
power  of  execution  which  creates,  forms,  and 
constitutes  :  not  the  profoundness  of  single 
thoughts,  not  the  richness  of  imagery,  not 
the  abundance  of  illustration."  Assuredly, 
no  "  new  definition  "  can  be  an  effective  one 
which  conflicts  with  Goethe's  incontrovertible 
dictum. 

But  this  much  having  been  admitted,  I  am 
only  too  wilhng  to  protest  against  the  uncritical 
outcry  against  Browning's  musical  incapacity . 

A  deficiency  is  not  incapacity,  otherwise 
Coleridge,  at  his  highest  the  most  perfect  of 
our  poets,  would  be  lowly  estimated. 

Bid  shine  what  would,  dismiss  into  the  shade 
What  should  not  he — and  there  triumphs  the  para- 
mount 
Surprise  o'  the  master.  .  .  . 

31 


Robert  Browning 

Browning's  music  is  oftener  harmonic  than 
melodic  :  and  musicians  know  how  the 
general  ear,  charmed  with  immediate  appel- 
lant melodies,  resents,  wearies  of,  or  is 
deaf  to  the  harmonies  of  a  more  remote,  a 
more  complex,  and  above  all  a  more  novel 
creative  method.  He  is,  among  poets,  what 
Wagner  is  among  musicians  ;  as  Shakespeare 
may  be  likened  to  Beethoven,  or  Shelley 
to  Chopin.  The  common  assertion  as  to 
his  incapacity  for  metric  music  is  on  the 
level  of  those  affirmations  as  to  his  not  being 
widely  accepted  of  the  people,  when  the 
people  have  the  chance  ;  or  as  to  the 
indifference  of  the  public  to  poetry  generally 
— and  this  in  an  age  when  poetry  has  never 
been  so  widely  understood,  loved,  and 
valued,  and  wherein  it  is  yearly  growing 
more  acceptable  and  more  potent  ! 

A  great  writer  is  to  be  adjudged  by  his 
triumphs,  not  by  his  failures  :  as,  to  take 
up  Montaigne's  simile  again,  a  famous  race- 
horse is  remembered  for  its  successes  and  not 
for  the  races  which  it  lost.  The  tendency 
with  certain  critics  is  to  reverse  the  process. 
Instead  of  saying  with  the  archbishop  in 
Home's  Gregory  VII.,  "He  owes  it  all  to 
his  Memnonian  voice  !  He  has  no  genius  :  " 
or  of  declaring,  as  Prospero  says  of  Caliban 

32 


Robert  Browning 

in  The  Tempest,  "He  is  as  disproportioned  in 
his  manners  as  in  his  shape  :  "  how  much 
better  to  affirm  of  him  what  Ben  Jonson 
wrote  of  Shakespeare:  "Hee  redeemed  his 
vices  with  his  vertues :  there  was  ever 
more  in  him  to  bee  praysed  than  to  bee 
pardoned."  In  the  balance  of  triumphs  and 
faihires,  however,  is  to  be  sought  the  relative 
measure  of  genius — whose  equipoise  should 
be  the  first  matter  of  ascertainment  in 
comparative  criticism. 

For  those  who  would  discriminate  between 
what  Mr.  Traill  succinctly  terms  his  generic 
greatness  as  thinker  and  man  of  letters, 
and  his  specific  power  as  poet,  it  is  necessary 
to  disabuse  the  mind  of  Browning's  "  mes- 
sage." The  question  is  not  one  of  weighty 
message,  but  of  artistic  presentation.  To 
praise  a  poem  because  of  its  optimism  is  like 
commending  a  peach  because  it  loves  the 
sunshine,  rather  than  because  of  its  dis- 
tinguishing bloom  and  savour.  The  primary 
concern  of  the  artist  must  be  with  his 
vehicle  of  expression.  In  the  instance  of  a 
poet,  this  vehicle  is  language  emotioned  to 
the  white-heat  of  rhythmic  music  by  im- 
passioned thought  or  sensation.  Schopen- 
hauer declares  it  is  all  a  question  of  style 
now  with  poetry  ;   that  everything  has  been 

III  33  c 


Robert  Browning 

sung,  that  everything  has  been  duly  cursed, 
that  there  is  nothing  left  for  poetry  but  to 
be  the  glowing  forge  of  words.     He  forgets 
that  in  quintessential  art  there  is  nothing  of 
the  past,  nothing  old  :    even  the  future  has 
part   therein   only   in   that   the   present   is 
always    encroaching    upon,    becoming,    the 
future.     The  famous  pessimistic  philosopher 
has,  in  common  with  other  critics,  made,  in 
effect,  the  same  remark — that  Style  exhales 
the  odour  of  the  soul  :    yet  he  himself  has 
indicated  that  the  strength  of  Shakespeare 
lay  in  the  fact  that  "he  had  no  taste,"  that 
"he  was  not  a  man  of  letters."     Whenever 
genius  has  displayed  epic  force  it  has  es- 
tablished a  new  order.     In  the  general  dis- 
integration  and   reconstruction   of  literary 
ideals    thus    involved,    it    is    easier    to    be 
confused  by  the  novel  flashing  of  strange 
lights  than  to  discern  the  central  vivifying 
altar-flame.     It  may  prove  that  what  seem 
to  us  the  regrettable  accidents  of  Browning's 
genius  are  no  malfortunate  flaws,   but   as 
germane  thereto  as  his  Herculean  rugged- 
nesses  are  to  Shakespeare,  as  the  laboured 
inversions  of  his  blank  verse  are  to  Milton,  as 
his  austere  concision  is  to  Dante.  Meanwhile, 
to  the  more  exigent  among  us  at  any  rate, 
the  flaws  seem  flaws,  and  in  nowise  essential, 

34 


Robert  Browning 

But  when  we  lind  weighty  message  and 
noble  utterance  in  union,  as  we  do  in  the 
magnificent  remainder  after  even  the  severest 
ablation  of  the  poor  and  mediocre  portion  of 
of  Browning's  life-work,  how  beneficent  seem 
the  generous  gods  !  Of  this  remainder  most 
aptly  may  be  quoted  these  lines  from  The 
Ring  and  the  Book, 

Gold  as  it  was,  is,  shall  be  evermore  ; 
Prime  nature  with  an  added  artistry. 

How  gladly,  in  this  dubious  hour — when, 
as  an  eminent  writer  has  phrased  it,  a 
colossal  Hand,  which  some  call  the  hand 
of  Destiny  and  others  that  of  Humanit}^, 
is  putting  out  the  lights  of  Heaven  one  by 
one,  like  candles  after  a  feast — how  gladly 
we  listen  to  this  poet  with  his  serene  faith 
in  God,  and  immortal  life,  and  the  soul's 
unending  development !  "  Hope  hard  in 
the  subtle  thing  that's  Spirit,"  he  cries  in 
the  Prologue  to  Pacchiarotto  ;  and  this,  in 
manifold  phrasing,  is  his  leit-motif,  his 
fundamental  idea,  in  unbroken  line  from 
the  Pauline  of  his  twenty -first  to  the 
Asolando  of  his  seventy-sixth  year.  This 
superb  phalanx  of  faith — what  shall  prevail 
against  it  ? 

How  winsome  it  is,  moreover  :    this,  and 

35 


Robert  Browning 

how  winsome  the  humanity  of  his  song. 
Profoundly  he  realised  that  there  is  no 
more  significant  study  than  the  human 
heart.  "  The  development  of  a  soul  :  little 
else  is  worth  study,"  he  wrote  in  his  preface 
to  Sordello  ;  so  in  his  old  age,  in  his  last 
Reverie : 

A  s  the  record  from  youth  to  age 

Of  my  own,  the  single  soul — 
So  the  world's  wide  book  :   one  page 

Deciphered  explains  the  whole 
Of  our  common  heritage. 

He  had  faith  also  that  "  the  record  from 
youth  to  age  "  of  his  own  soul  would  outlast 
any  present  indifference  or  neglect — that 
whatever  tide  might  bear  him  away  from 
our  regard  for  a  time  would  ere  long  flow 
again.  The  reaction  must  come  :  it  is, 
indeed,  already  at  hand.  But  one  almost 
fancies  one  can  hear  the  gathering  of  the 
remote  waters  once  more.     We  may,  with 

Strafford, 

feci  sure 
That  Time,  who  in  the  twilight  comes  to  mend 
All  the  fantastic  day's  caprice,  consign 
To  the  low  ground  once  more  the  ignoble  Term, 
And  raise  the  Genius  on  his  orb  again, — 
That  Time  will  do  me  right.  .  .  . 

Indeed,  Browning  has  the  grand  manner, 
for  all  it  is  more  that  of  the  Scandinavian 

36 


Robert  Browning 

Jarl  than  of  the  Itahan  count  or  Spanish 
grandee. 

And  ever,  below  all  the  stress  and  failure, 
below  all  the  triumph  of  his  toil,  is  the 
beauty  of  his  dream.  It  was  "  a  surpassing 
Spirit  "  that  went  from  out  our  midst : 

One  who   never  turned  his  hack  hut  marched  hreast 
forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,   though  right  were  worsted,    wrong 

would  triumph, 
Held  tve  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better. 
Sleep  to  wake. 

1890 


37 


ROSSETTI  IN  PROSE  AND  VERSE 

The  most  objective  author  is  certain,  some- 
where or  other  throughout  his  writings,  to 
afford  at  least  a  ghmpse  of  self-portraiture 
to  the  reader — some  illuminative  "  aside  " 
which,  whether  as  from  the  writer  himself 
or  uttered  by  some  fictitious  personage,  is 
all-revealing.  In  a  sense,  certain  poets  are 
independent  of  biographies,  which  in  some 
instances  merely  serve  the  purpose  of 
anecdotal  narratives.  Shelley,  Byron, 
Alfred  de  Musset,  Leopardi,  Omar  Khay- 
yam, Horace — in  a  lesser  degree  Keats, 
Heine,  and  Victor  Hugo — stand  revealed  to 
us  in  their  own  writings.  And  pre-emin- 
ently to  this  order  of  poets  does  Rossetti 
belong.  Not  one  of  his  biographers  will 
lead  us  so  deeply  into  his  secret  as  he  does 
himself.  What  any  appreciative  friend  or 
critic  may  say  of  this  writer's  nature  and 
temperament,  we  are  fairly  sure  to  find 
already  plainly  manifest  in  his  own  words. 
Herein  lies  one  of  the  most  attractive 
characteristics  of  the  poetry  of  the  author 

38 


Rosseiti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

of  The  House  of  Life.  In  it  we  are  brought 
face  to  face  with  a  fascinating  personaHty,  a 
man  who  is  not  of  the  common  order,  a 
visionary  j^et  no  mere  dreamer,  a  man  born 
out  of  due  time,  and  yet  on  the  forefront 
of  one  of  the  chief  intellectual  movements  of 
latter  days  ;  an  observer  with  exceptional 
capacities  for  action  ;  a  recluse,  yet  "  a 
force  of  central  fire  descending  consciously 
and  unconsciously  on  many  altars."  His 
weaknesses,  his  shortcomings,  as  a  poet,  are 
as  emphatic  revelations  as  are  his  powers 
and  excellences.  Natures  that  run  to  excess 
are  the  richest. 

While  the  poetry  of  Rossetti  everywhere 
more  or  less  strikingly  reveals  the  man 
behind  it,  here  and  there  we  come  across 
lines  peculiarly  suggestive.  One  such  utter- 
ance is  to  be  found  among  the  hitherto  un- 
pubhshed  matter  brought  together  in  the 
collected  works.  The  prose  sketch  for  a 
poem  to  be  called  The  Orchard  Pit  com- 
mences thus  :  "  Men  tell  me  that  sleep  has 
many  dreams ;  but  all  my  life  I  have 
dreamt  one  dream  alone."  This  is  as 
directly  personal  a  statement  as  if  it  had 
occurred  in  an  autobiography.  Veritably, 
all  his  hfe  Rossetti  dreamt  one  dream.  He 
was  from  the  days  of  his  boyhood  onward 

39 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

haunted  by  the  vision  of  Beauty  ;  the  love 
of  Beauty  became  a  passion  ;  this  passion 
became  his  very  being  : 

This  is  that  Lady  Beaiity,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  spake  still — long  known  to 
thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
Hoiv  passionately  and  irretrievably , 
Tn  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 

And  hke  all  lovers — those  lovers,  above  all, 
who  in  the  words  of  Merimee,  se  passionnent 
pour  la  passion — he  became  a  slave  to  this 
tyrant  Love,  this  wonderful  abstract  Beauty, 
and  in  his  enthralling,  and  even  bewildering 
bondage,  he  again  and  again  gropes  vainly 
towards  the  living  sunshine  of  reahty,  at 
times  even  losing  himself  in  phantasmal 
obscurities.  It  is  not  that  he  can  be  accused 
of  vagueness,  mere  nebulosity.  Even  when 
most  subject  to  the  poetic  mania,  his  lines 
vibrate  with  the  passionate  emotion  which 
inspires  them  ;  but  his  inspiration  is  not 
unfrequently  so  remote  from  those  emo- 
tional resources  which  affect  the  generality 
of  mankind  that  he  seems  to  have  hearkened 
at  the  portals  of  some  house  of  dreams, 
rather  than  to  the  more  urgent  whispers  of 
the  world  of  reality.     And  yet  no  greater 

40 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

injustice  can  be  done — alike  to  the  man 
and  to  the  poet — than  to  say  that  he  was  a 
dreamer  only.  His  was  a  nature  too  keenly 
susceptible  to  the  urgency  of  life  to  surrender 
itself  in  brooding  inaction.  He  dreamt  one 
dream — he  lived  one  dream — he  worked 
with  the  pen  of  the  poet  and  the  brush  of  the 
painter  towards  the  reahsation  of  one 
dream  ;  but,  more  than  most  men,  life  was 
to  him  a  thing  of  ceaseless  wonder  and 
absorbing  attraction.  He  had  pre-emi- 
nently that  wonder-faculty  which  is  a 
characteristic  of  great  poets.  An  eminent 
critic  has  written  of  him  that  where  his  true 
importance  in  the  history  of  literature  lies 
is  in  the  fact  that  (or  with  Coleridge) 
Rossetti  is  the  chief  exponent  of  that  re- 
nascence of  wonder — the  renascence  of  the 
temper  of  wonder,  mystery,  and  awe — 
which  is  the  most  thrilHng  and  momentous 
thing  in  the  history  of  latter-day  civihsation. 
But  more  than  thirty  years  before  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton  wrote  to  this  effect,  Rossetti 
himself  had  written  of  "  that  indefinable 
sense  of  rest  and  wonder  which,  when 
childhood  is  once  gone,  poetry  alone  can 
recall."  To  those  minds,  indeed,  to  whom 
Rossetti  appeals  most,  just  because  of  his 
exponency   of  this   temper  of  wonder  and 

41 


Rosseili  in  Prose  and  Verse 

mystery,  he  must  take  rank  as  one  of  the 
greatest  EngHsh  poets  since  Coleridge  and 
Keats.  With  both  the  latter  he  had  sym- 
pathies arising  from  sources  deeper  than 
appreciative  admiration  simply  ;  he  was  at 
one  with  them  in  their  power,  their  instinc- 
tive faculty  rather,  of  looking  at  the  quahties 
and  apparent  unrealities  of  life  through  the 
purely  poetic  atmosphere.  Those  possessed 
by  the  mania  of  poetry  look  forth  upon  the 
world  through  a  transmuting  mist  :  an 
indefinable  glamour  glorifies  their  vision. 
But  with  this  supremely  poetic  temper,  with 
this  mystic  glamour,  Rossetti  had  certain 
faults  of  so  radical  a  nature  that  no  incon- 
siderable portion  of  his  poetry  suffered 
irremediably.  The  greatest  colourist  of 
modern  times,  he  at  one  period  of  his 
artistic  career  found  his  colour-sense  in- 
toxicated, or,  perhaps,  he  beheved  with 
Blake  that  "  exuberance  is  beauty  "  :  and 
so  in  verse  we  find  him  at  times  revelling  in 
an  extravagant  luxuriousness  of  diction 
calculated  to  cloy  rather  than  to  gratify. 
His  verse  became  overloaded  with  gorgeous 
images,  with  ingenious  combinations,  with 
mere  resonances.  He  delighted  in  the  roll 
of  a  line,  in  the  rhythmic  strength  of  a 
decasyllabic   verse,   in   the   sonorous  music 

42 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

of  potysyllabic  words,  with  an  intensity  of 
enjoyment  which  occasionally  blinded  him 
to  the  fact  that  the  line  had  no  essential 
relevancy,  the  verse  nought  save  sound,  the 
words  more  sonority  than  suitability.  He 
regarded  Lord  Tennyson  as  the  greatest 
artist  in  verse  in  modern  times,  but  he  failed 
to  see  that  one  reason  of  this  was  the  Lau- 
reate's simplicity  of  diction,  his  instinctive 
as  well  as  cultivated  preference  for  Saxon 
over  Anglo -Latin  words.  There  are  poems 
of  his,  particularly  certain  sonnets,  which 
contain  lines  almost  in  mongrel  Enghsh  : 
one  sonnet,  for  example,  commences  with 
'•  Like  multiform  circumfluence  manifold." 
Again,  through  having — in  his  own  words 
— long  mentally  cartooned  a  poem  before 
committing  it  to  paper,  and  through  much 
brooding  upon  it,  he  frequently  made  his 
meaning  obscure  to  his  readers  when  to  him 
it  was  as  manifest  as  dayhght.  Partly  from 
this,  partly  from  an  occasionally  exaggerated 
aesthetic  sense,  he  imprisoned  the  spirit  of 
poetry  in  a  network  of  words  ;  and  this 
defect  becomes  most  noticeable  when  he  is 
dealing  with  facts  of  nature.  It  is  a  relief, 
after  reading  such  poetic  phraseology  as 

The   embowered     throstle's    urgent    wood-notes 
soar, 

43 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

to  turn  to  the  unlaboured  and  impulsive 
strain  of  the  Scottish  singer  : 

The  mavis  sings  fu  blithely 
On  ilka  leafy  bough  ; 

or  to  the  English  poet's  : 

Hark  !   where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture. 

This  inability   to  approach  nature  as   a 
lover    is    in    curious    contradistinction    to 
>  Rossetti's  instinctive  faculty  for  the  appre- 
hension of  the  beautiful.     Scattered  through- 
out his  poetry  there  are  many  most   ex- 
^  quisite   descriptions,   but   these   are   scenic 
I  ghmpses   described   by   the   painter   rather 
^  than  the  poet.     It  is,  of  course,  difficult  to 
realise    this    when    we    come    across    some 
beautiful  hues  here  and  there  in  a  poem  ; 
fascinating,  haunting,  suggestive  lines,  such 
^-as  those,  for  instance,  to  be  found  in  Rose 
/  Mary.     But  whenever  we  discover  Rossetti 
V  *" "'  making  a  direct  transcript  or  study  from 

nature,   for   its   own   sake,   we   are   almost 
certain  to  discern  the  difference  between  the 

44 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verso 

purely  literary  method  and  that  of  the 
nature-lover.  Take,  for  example,  the  fine 
sonnet  on  Spring.  The  octave  is  admirable, 
and  might  have  been  written  by  Burroughs 
or  Richard  Jefferies  in  so  far  as  vivid  por- 
trayal of  nature  is  concerned  ;  but  let  us 
read  the  sestet : 

Chill  are  the  gusts  to  which  the  pastures  cower, 
And    chill    the    current  where    the   young    reeds 

stand 
As  green  and  close  as  the  young  ivheat  on  land  : 
Yet  here  the  cuckoo  and  the  cuckoo-flower 
Plight  to  the  heart  spring's  perfect  imminent  hour 
Whose  breath  shall  soothe  you  like  your  dear  one's 
hand. 

In  the  second  tercet  the  poet  lapses  from  \ 
nature  into  literary  effect  ;  can  we  imagine 
Wordsworth  or  Burns,  Keats  or  Shelley  or 
Chaucer  having  written  these  lines  ?  Even 
the  simpHcity  of  form  and  diction  incidental 
to  the  ballad  did  not  restrain  Rossetti  from 
passing  in  a  single  line  from  energetic  and 
vivid  directness  to  a  remote  and  subtle 
conception  entirely  foreign  to  his  artistic 
aim.  In  the  stirring  ballad  of  The  White 
Ship — the  personal  record,  it  must  be  borne 
in  mind,  of  Berold,  a  butcher  of  Rouen — we 
encounter  at  least  one  extraordinary  in- 
congruity : 

45 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

The  king  was  'ware 
Of  a  Utile  boy  with  golden  hair, 
As  bright  as  the  golden  poppy  is 
That  the  beach  breeds  for  the  surf  to  kiss. 

It  is  certainly  not  the  Rouen  butcher  who 
speaks  in  the  last  line  :  but  Rossetti,  and 
Rossetti  not  at  his  best. 

But  if  Rossetti  has  not  magically  inter- 
preted external  nature,  if  the  Uterary  instinct 
in  him  occasionally  too  markedly  dominates 
the  purel}^  poetic,  there  is  one  point  wherein 
he  excels  any  contemporary  writer.  In  the 
domain  of  the  supernatural  he  is  the  sole 
worthy  inheritor  of  Coleridge.  This  note  of 
what  is  known  as  supernaturalism — this 
note  of  the  mysterious,  of  the  weird — is  of 
modern  emphasis  ;  it  is  the  sign  of  the  pro- 
jection of  the  soul,  stifled  with  the  con- 
ventionalities and  growing  materialism  of 
civilisation,  into  the  region  of  romance. 
The  romantic  spirit  is  the  wind  that  unfolds 
the  loveliest  efflorescence  of  the  human 
mind.  The  great  poets  are  of  necessity 
romanticists,  for  they  are  as  ^oHan  harps 
to  the  breath  of  Poetry,  which  is  subhmated 
romance.  Lesser  men  are  writers  of  poems, 
of  verse.  A  man  is  not  an  artist  because  he 
paints  pictures,  a  poet  because  he  writes 
poems  ;    the  maker,  the  inventor,  the  seer, 

46 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

he  and  he  only  is  the  poet,  the  artist.  A 
wider  gulf  divides  Pope  and  Keats  than 
separates  the  pure  Saxon  and  the  pure  Celt. 
And  it  is  because  Rossetti  is  the  foremost 
figure  in  the  latest  renascence  of  romanti- 
cism that  he  ranks  so  high,  that  he  is  placed 
by  many  on  a  pedestal  which  to  the  majority 
of  people,  perhaps,  seems  a  blasphemous 
usurpation  of  the  high  places  of  the  popular 
gods.  This  wind  of  romance  blew  through 
every  day  of  his  hfc,  whether  in  his  hand  he 
held  the  brush  or  the  pen  : 

To  him  bringing 
Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 
From  out  the  middle  air. 

But  it  was  the  vital  essence  of  romance 
which  permeated  his  nature,  and  no  merely 
skin-deep  or  spurious  romantic  sentimen- 
talism.  I  do  not  think  that  Rossetti  (whose 
love  for  Keats  equalled  if  it  did  not  exceed 
that  which  he  felt  for  Shakespeare  and 
Coleridge)  at  all  agreed  with  his  favourite 
poet  that : 

They  shall  be  accounted  poet-kings 
Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 

And  he  certainly  used  to  indulge  in  kindly 

47 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

mockery   of   Keats'   boyish   and  immature 
outcry : 

O  for  an  age  so  sheltered  from  annoy, 

That  I  may  never  know  how  change  the  moons. 

Or  hear  the  voice  of  busy  common-sense. 

In  a  word,  Rossetti — so  it  invariably 
seemed  to  the  present  writer,  at  any  rate — 
had  too  robust  an  intellect  to  imagine  that 
science  and  poetry  were  fundamentally 
antagonistic.  As  an  artist — in  the  narrow 
and  common  sense  of  the  word — he  was, 
however,  at  the  opposite  pole  to  that  of 
Science  :  a  fact  which  he  at  once  ad- 
mitted and  approved.  No  poet  was  ever 
more  anti -scientific  than  himself,  but  he 
had  that  deeper  vision  which  recognised, 
even  while  it  perhaps  did  not  sympathise 
with,  the  greatness  of  the  idea  of  unity 
underlying  all  things.  With  Keats,  he 
would  have  preferred  the  world  not  to  have 
known  the  woof  and  texture  of  the  rainbow, 
so  that  when  the  wondrous  bow  appeared  in 
the  heavens  it  might  be  with  all  the  mystery 
and  awe  of  ancient  days  ;  yet,  withal,  he 
would  not  have  it  relegated  to  "  the  dull 
catalogue  of  common  things."  The  woof, 
the  texture,  might  be  expHcable ;  the 
beauty,  even  the  mystery  of  it,  might  be 
different  in  effect   from   that   produced  of 

48 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

old ;  but,  nevertheless,  mysterious  and 
beautiful  it  must  ever  remain.  Some 
accounts  of  Rossetti  have  represented  the 
poet-painter  as  a  morbid  dreamer,  a  curse 
to  himself  and  a  burden  to  his  friends  ;  a 
hater  of  the  common  interests  of  mankind, 
a  selfish  devotee  at  the  shrine  of  abstract 
Beauty,  an  enemy  to  the  widening  of  man's 
intellectual  horizon.  Others,  who  knew 
him  intimately,  and  saw  him  continuously 
through  several  years  of  his  least  propitious 
period — can  only  say  that  they  found  him 
none  of  these  things.  In  sweetness  of 
temper,  in  graciousness  of  manner,  in  healthy 
and  energetic,  if  not  very  comprehensive 
sympathy  with  the  httle  things  of  hfe,  in 
ready  interest  in  everything  intellectual,  in 
quick  wilhngness  to  see  the  humorous 
aspect  of  things,  in  urgent  sympathy  with 
and  desire  to  share  vicariously  the  troubles 
of  his  friends,  in  deep  and  broad  insight  into 
the  fundamental  principles  and  subtlest 
beauties  of  art  and  poetry — in  one  and  all 
of  these  they  found  him  the  opposite  of  what 
he  has  sometimes  been  portrayed.  Of 
course,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  he  dwelt 
in  the  shadow  of  a  great  melancholy  ;  that 
on  occasions,  when  suffering  from  nervous 
prostration,  and  other  effects  of  insomnia, 
III  49  D 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

he  spoke,  and  even  acted,  like  a  man  bereft 

of  absolute  moral  control,  and  that  a  certain 

morbid  sensitiveness  created  difficulties  not 

always  easy  of  explanation  ;  but  these  were 

the    incidental,    and    not    the    prevailing, 

aspects    of    his    later    life.     The    profound 

,     _^        sadness  which  cast  its  gloom  over  him  did 

^^     ■  not  make  itself  perpetually  evident.     Melan- 

jU    ^_         choly,  moreover,  is  the  invariable  shadow 

\vy  of  high  genius.     Again,  much  of  this  extreme 

'"  despondency   was   due   to   purely   physical 

causes  ;  insomnia,  unwitting  excess  in  the  use 

Nv^""'  of  chloral,  the  habits  of  a  recluse,  all  conduced 

J^^  towards  emphasising  and  perpetuating  the 

inborn  and  poetic  sentiment  of  melancholy. 
This  was  evident  in  the  rapid  transition 
whereby  he  would  frequently  pass  from  a 
mood  of  dire  despondency  into  one  of  alert 
interest,  his  eyes  glistening  with  keen  appre- 
ciation, his  mouth  twitching  sensitively. 
Friends  would  arrive  on  an  afternoon  (it  would 
not  "heighten  the  effect"  to  say  "on  a 
dull,"  or  "  gloomy,"  or  "  wintry  "  afternoon, 
for  to  summer  and  winter,  gloom}^  and 
bright  days,  Rossetti  was — save  in  so  far  as 
these  interfered  with  or  assisted  him  in 
the  prosecution  of  his  painting — mostly  in- 
different) and  find  him  in  the  depths  of 
fathomless    despair.      By    dinner-time     he 

50 


Rosseiii  in  Prose  and  Verse 

would  be  in  shallower  seas  of  despondency  ; 
an  hour  or  so  later  he  would  be  on  the 
high-tide  of  conversational  cheerfulness ;  and 
between  the  hours  of  ten  and  three — when 
he  was  at  his  best — many  a  jest  and  hearty 
laugh,  keen  criticism  and  pungent  remark, 
recondite  reminiscence  and  poetic  quotation, 
would  make  the  lurking  blue  devils  depart 
altogether  from  the  studio — to  await  their 
victim  when,  in  the  sleepless  morning-hours, 
he  should  be  alone  once  more  with  his 
sufferings  and  unquiet  thoughts.  Even  in 
the  last  year  of  his  life,  when  his  resolute  and 
dominant  nature  had  become  emasculated 
through  the  use  of  chloral,  he  would,  not 
infrequently — by  an  imperious  effort  of  the 
will — rally  from  a  very  hell  of  despairful 
despondenc5^  In  the  fireht  studio — from 
the  walls  of  which  gleamed  fitfully  the  strange 
brooding  eyes  of  some  of  those  mystically 
beautiful  women  to  whom  he  gave  the  names 
of  Mnemosyne,  Astarte  Syriaca,  Cassandra, 
Pandora,  Proserpine  :  in  the  large  gloomy 
bed-chamber,  with  its  heavy  hangings  and 
haunting  shadows :  in  the  panelled  sitting- 
room  at  Birchington,  with  the  sea-wind 
moaning  and  shrieking  round  the  house — in 
each,  the  present  writer  has  seen  Rossetti 
struggle  hke  a  drowning  mariner  with  an 

51 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

overwhelming    tide    of    deepest    dejection, 
struggle    manfully,    and    triumph.     Again, 
though  he  was  no  poet  of  nature,  Nature  at 
times  had  for  him,  too,  her  message,  her  solace. 
One  day,  not  very  long  before  his  death, 
we  stood  together  on  the  chff  at  Birchington, 
looking  seaward.     The  sky  was  a  cloudless 
blue,  and  the  emulation  and  exultation  of  at 
least  a  score  of  larks  was  something  wonder- 
ful to  listen  to  ;  the  sweet  scents  of  early 
spring  everywhere  prevailed,  blent  with  the 
odour   of  the  sea-wi-ack  from  below  ;    the 
sea,  of  purple-shaded  azure,  was  beautiful 
beyond  words.     At  first  I  thought  Rossetti 
was  as  heedless  of  his  en\aronment  as  he  was 
in  general ;   but  in  reply  to  som.e  remark 
of  mine  he  replied:    "  It  *'s  beautiful — the- 
world,   the  Hfe  itself.     I   am  glad   I  have 
lived  ;    I  am  glad  I  yet  shall  live."     Insen- 
sibly thereafter  his  dejection  lifted  from  off 
his  spirit,  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day  and 
evening  he  was  almost  his  old  self  again. 
Yet    the   shadow  of  death  was  even  then 
upon  him,  and  a  weakness  nigh  intolerable. 
Those  who  knew  him  well  have  ever  been 
convinced  that  his  genius  (which  up  to  the 
end  grew  more  intense  and  dominant,  instead 
of  diminishing)  would  have  produced  poems 
and  pictures — poems  more  especially — equal 

52 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and   Verse 

to,  if  not  surpassing,  his  highest  pubhshcd 
achievements.  I  always  think  of  him  as 
having  died  young. 

Der  Aherglauhe  ist  die  Poesie  des  Lebens, 
said  Goethe  ;  and  if  we  translate  this 
"  over-beHef,"  this  "  superstition,"  into 
"  supernatural,"  we  proclaim  a  fundamental 
truth.  At  the  base  of  the  highest  imagina- 
tive poetry  lies  what  we  call  the  super- 
natural element.  Among  the  poets  of  the 
Victorian  era,  there  is  none  who  has  touched 
a  higher  note  of  imaginative  supernaturalism 
than  Rossetti.  It  is  this  quality  which  raises 
to  its  supreme  level  of  imagination  The  King's 
Tragedy,  a  poem  surcharged  with  the  super- 
natural, as  a  thunder-cloud  with  electricity. 

More  than  any  poet  of  our  generation, 
Rossetti  carried  personification  to  excess. 
This  particularity  affords  the  most  striking 
index  to  his  spiritual  nature,  but  it  is  often 
a  source  of  weakness.  Instances  will  crowd 
upon  all  students  of  his  poems  : — Memory, 
Death,  Sleep,  Oblivion,  Youth,  Love's  Hour, 
Dead  Hours,  Vain  Virtues,  Lost  Days,  and 

so  forth  : 

Nay,  why 
Name  the  dead  hours  ?     I  mind  them  well  ; 
Their  ghosts  in  many  darkened  doorways  dwell 
With  desolate  eyes  to  know  them  by. 


53 


Rossctti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

Here  doth  memory  sit         *         *         * 
While  hopes  and  aims,  long  lost  with  hey, 

Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side. 

*  *  *  ^ 

One  flame-winged  brought  a  white-winged  harp-player; 
Then  said  my  lady  :    "  Thoit  art  Passion  of  Love, 
And  this  Love's  worship." 

jf:  ^  }{:  (fc 

Song,  whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame,  and  blossomed  like  a  wreath. 

sfi  #|t  ^  ?jt 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes  : 
Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep 

Deep  within  the  August  woods. 

*  *  *  * 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine, 
All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  day. 

Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 
Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

In  the  two  bulky  volumes  published  by 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Scrutton — comprising  in 
all  more  than  a  thousand  pages — we  have, 
to  all  intents,  the  complete  life-work  of 
Rossetti  in  literature.  With  his  great  and 
steadily  growing  fame  and  influence  as  a 
painter  we  have  here  nothing  to  do  ;  but  I 
may  quote  the  emphatic  opinion  of  an 
eminent  critic  :  "  These  moral  qualities, 
guiding  an  artistic  temperament  as  exquisite 
as  was  ever  bestowed  on  man,  made  him 
what  he  was,  the  greatest  inventor  of 
abstract  beauty,  both  in  form  and  colour, 

54 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

perhaps  that  the  world  has  ever  seen." 
Poems,  translations,  prose  pieces,  critical 
papers,  and  various  highly  interesting  me- 
moranda— all  are  here.  It  is  not  an  easy 
task  for  a  brother  to  write  critically  and 
judicially  of  a  brother,  and  no  small  credit 
is  due  to  William  Michael  Rossetti  for  his 
prefatory  remarks,  at  once  impartial  and 
adequate,  reserved  and  appreciative.  The 
additions  which  go  to  make  these  two 
volumes  the  "  complete  works  "  are  vari- 
ously valuable  and  are  all  interesting, 
though  no  one  of  them  seems  to  the  present 
writer  so  pre-eminently  fine  as  to  add 
materially  to  Rossetti's  reputation. 

Hand  and  Soul  is  familiar  to  most  students 
of  Rossetti.  This  beautiful  prose  fantasy 
or  prose-poem  appeared  first  in  that  ex- 
ceedingly scarce  magazine  The  Germ ;  it 
was  afterwards  reprinted  in  The  Fortnightly 
Review,  and  finally  had  a  limited  private 
circulation  in  pamphlet  form.  Rossetti 
valued  it  highly,  regarding  it  as  important 
an  imaginative  achievement  as  any  of  his 
poems,  with  a  few  super-excellent  excep- 
tions. It  was  written  at  white  heat  between 
the  hours  of  2  a.m.  and  7,  one  winter  night 
(or  morning)  in  December  1849,  that  is, 
when  the  author  was  only  in  his  twenty- 

55 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

first  year.  It  bears  the  evidence  of  this 
fervid  emotional  impulse  in  its  absolutely 
sustained  impressiveness,  and  its  exquisite 
diction  seems  to  have  gained  rather  than  to 
have  lost  by  the  breathless  haste  of  the 
young  visionary.  But  fine  and  nobly  sug- 
gestive as  Hand  and  Soul  is,  it  is  surpassed 
by  the  strange  tale  Saint  Agnes  of  Inter- 
cession, to  which  so  many  readers  will  turn 
with  vivid  interest.  The  latter  is  more 
concrete,  and  thus  more  surely  captivates 
the  imaginative  sympathy  of  the  reader. 
Although  a  fragment  in  the  sense  that  it  is 
unfinished,  it  is  not  difficult  to  forecast  the 
conclusion  it  would  have  reached  had  the 
author  been  enabled  to  complete  it.  Mr. 
William  Rossetti  thinks  that  it  must  have 
been  begun  before  Hand  and  Soul,  and 
worked  upon  at  intervals.  When  making 
a  transcript  of  it  in  1870,  Rossetti  gave  it  its 
present  title,  but  he  does  not  seem,  then  or 
later,  to  have  added  much  to  the  original 
reading.  As  it  stands,  the  tale  constitutes 
less  than  half  of  the  projected  whole.  It  is 
inferior  to  Hand  and  Soul  in  imperative 
spiritual  significance,  nor  in  style  has  it  the 
same  subtlety  and  curious  beauty  as  the 
mystic  record  of  Chiaro  dell'  Erma,  but  it  is 
not  less  characteristically  or  ably  written,  and 

56 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

has — to  use  an  expressive  term — more  grip. 
Apart  from  its  literary,  it  has  something  of 
an  autobiographical  value — in  the  opening 
passages,  at  any  rate. 

The  story  is  of  a  young  artist  upon  whom 
is  strangely  forced  the  conviction  of  ante- 
natal existence.  Four  hundred  years  ago 
he  and  the  girl  whom  he  loves  as  Buccio 
Angiolieri  and  Blanzifiore  dalP  Ambra,  lived 
and  suffered  !  Henceforward  his  life  is  as  a 
dream.  The  tale  ends  abruptly,  but  we 
have  a  clue  to  the  intended  fmale  in  an 
etching  by  Millais  made  in  or  about  1850, 
an  etching  which  would  have  appeared  in 
The  Germ  had  that  magazine  not  come  to  an 
untimely  end.  As  Angiolieri  painted  his 
beloved  Blanzifiore  (as  "  Saint  Agnes  ") 
during  her  mortal  illness,  so — in  this  etching 
— we  see  the  hero  of  the  story  painting  the 
portrait  of  his  betrothed  when  upon  her  is 
the  shadow  of  im.minent  death.  It  cannot, 
of  course,  be  claimed  that  the  central  idea 
of  this  story  is  original  :  in  its  evolution  it  is 
entirely  so.  Both  it  and  Hand  and  Soul 
owed  something  in  point  of  style  to  Charles 
Wells's  Stories  ajter  Nature.  Wells  had 
always  a  great  attraction  for  Rossetti,  and 
I  have  often  wondered  why  the  latter  never 
painted  a  picture  founded  on  some  passage 

57 


-    Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

in  these  practically  unknown  tales.  The 
Maid  of  Provence  was,  I  think,  his  favourite, 
and  there  are  at  least  two  scenes  therein 
especially  calculated  to  fascinate  the  poet- 
painter's  imagination — one  where  the  dis- 
guised heroine  holds  the  torch  for  her  own 
slaying  ;  another  as  outlined  in  the  following 
eminently  Keatsian  sentence,  "  as  a  wizard 
sitteth  at  a  moonlight  casement  by  a  magic 
torch,  knitting  a  vexed  brow,  and  sweating 
at  the  discovery  of  some  webbed  problem 
of  enchantment." 

The  Orchard  Pit  is  nominally  the  prose- 
projection  of  a  long  poem  ;  it  is,  in  fact,  a 
complete  and  impressive  prose-poem.  It  is 
short,  3^et  not  only  is  it  entitled  to  rank 
among  the  positive  creative  efforts  of  its 
author,  but  has,  it  may  prove,  a  permanent 
impressiveness  superior  to  either  St.  Agnes 
or  Hand  and  Soul.  The  Doom  oj  the  Sirens,  a 
finished  outhne-sketch  for  a  lyrical  tragedy, 
is  of  no  literary  value  ;  but  The  Cup  oj 
Water  and  Michael's  Scotfs  Wooing,  contain 
the  hving  germs  of  poetry,  and  we  realise 
how  much  we  have  lost  from  the  non- 
fruition  of  these  schemes.  Of  the  Hterary 
papers — all  more  or  less  pieces  d'occasion — 
the  longest  is  the  collective  one  on  Blake  ;  the 
most  literary,  those  on  Dr.  Gordon  Hake's 

58 


Rossciii  in  Prose  and  Verse 

poems  ;  the  most  biographically  interesting, 
that  on  The  Stealthy  School  oj  Criticism. 
The  last  is  a  reprint  of  Rossetti's  reply 
in  The  AthcncEum  (1871)  to  the  criticism 
on  him  by  Robert  Buchanan ;  its  re- 
publication, at  this  date,  seems  to  me  a 
mistake.  No  man  has  ever  made  a  franker 
admission  of  having  been  in  the  wrong,  than 
has  Buchanan— in  whose  latest  volume, 
it  may  be  added,  there  is  a  paper  upon 
Rossetti  full  of  the  warmest  appreciation 
and  of  generous  praise.  No  sane  critic,  no 
reasonable  reader  of  his  poems,  would  now 
discern  anything  in  the  poetry  of  Rossetti 
calculated  to  support  the  charge  of  sen- 
suality. Sensuous  in  the  best  sense  Rossetti 
as  a  poet  is  ;  so  in  art  are  Titian  and 
Tintoretto  and  Turner  ;  so  in  poetry  are 
Shakespeare  and  Milton.  However,  the 
honourableness  of  the  word  "  sensuous  "  is 
likely  to  remain  as  enigmatic  to  our  country- 
men in  general  as  the  idea  of  republican 
fraternity.  It  would  have  been  more  dig- 
nified, and  more  politic,  to  have  omitted 
from  the  Collected  Works  this  wrathful  and 
not  very  potent  diatribe  against  the  wanton 
but  powerful  attack  of  one  who  has  long 
since  laid  down  the  lance  and  made  loyal 
obeisance. 

59 


RosseUi  in  Prose  and  Verse 

Among  the  "  Sentences  and  Notes," 
"  picked  out  passim  from  my  brother's 
note -book  " — ranging  from  1866  till  towards 
the  close  of  Rossetti's  life- — are  various 
interesting  and  suggestive  dicta  ;  sometimes 
more  interesting  and  suggestive  than  strictly 
original.  This  of  poetry  is  good — "  Poetry 
should  seem  to  the  hearer  to  have  been 
always  present  to  his  thought,  but  never 
before  heard  "  ;  and  of  great  interest  is  this 
note  concerning  colours.  "  Thinking  in 
what  order  I  love  colours,  found  the  follow- 
ing : 

"  I.  Pure  hght  warm  green.  2.  Deep 
gold-colour.  3.  Certain  tints  of  grey. 
4.  Shadowy,  or  steel-blue.  5.  Brown,  with 
crimson  tinge.     6.  Scarlet." 

To  Volume  II.,  that  containing  all 
Rossetti's  admirable  work  in  translation, 
the  main  addition,  as  already  stated,  is 
Henry  the  Leper — the  EngHsh  version  of  the 
Suabian  miracle-play  Der  Arme  Heinrich. 
It  was  while  still  in  his  teens  that  he  trans- 
lated (besides  Burger's  Lenore,  and  a  portion 
of  the  Nibelungenlied ;  neither,  unfortu- 
nately, extant),  Hartmann  Von  Aue's 
famous  poem  ;  so  that  those  who  might 
be  inclined  to  think  he  had  followed  the 
lead    of    Longfellow,    who    re-adapted    the 

60 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

original  in  his  Golden  Legend,  will  find  that 
Rossetti  had  the  start  of  the  American  poet 
by  four  or  five  years. 

It  is  needless,  at  this  late  date,  to  em- 
phasise the  beauty  and  value  of  Rossetti 's 
translations.  None  has  surpassed  him  as 
an  interpreter  of  Dante  and  the  early 
ItaUan  poets.  In  his  versions  not  a  breath 
of  the  volatile  spirit  of  poetry  escapes  ;  and 
for  exquisite  subtlety  and  ingenuity,  there 
is  nothing  to  excel  his  rendering  of  Villon's 
Dead  Ladies.  At  times,  when  as  a  poet 
greatly  superior  to  the  writer  whom  he 
sought  to  interpret,  he  does  the  fortunate 
singer  too  much  honour. 

Concerning  the  poetical  additions  to  the 
first  volume  a  few  words  must  be  said. 
Several  of  these  miscellaneous  poems  have 
"  already  appeared  in  some  outlying  form  "  ; 
of  some  others  it  must  be  admitted  that  they 
do  not  tend  to  add  to  the  author's  reputa- 
tion ;  while,  again,  there  are  a  few  which  no 
lover  of  Rossetti 's  poetry  would  wilHngly 
lose.  The  longest  of  these  new  poems  is 
A  Trip  to  Belgium  and  France — in  deca- 
syllabic blank-verse  as  inefficiently  as  that 
of  A  Last  Confession  is  worthily  sustained. 
It  is  a  traveller's  diary  in  verse,  somewhat 
in  the  manner   of   a   wearied   Wordsworth. 

6i 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

There  are  one  or  two  noteworthy  Knes, 
some  good  descriptive  passages,  occa- 
sional bathos,  and  a  fair  amount  of  exe- 
crable prose  such  as  the  passage  beginning 
(p.  228),  "  Now,  very  hkely  he  who  did 
the  job." 

Among  the  several  beautiful  short  pieces, 
mention  should  be  made  of  During  Music, 
lines  which  Shelley  might  have  written ; 
Near  Brussels  ;  and  the  haunting  melan- 
choly Autumn  Song: 

Know'st  thou  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  heart  feels  a  languid  grief 
Laid  on  it  for  a  covering, 
And  how  sleep  seems  a  goodly  thing 
In  antiunn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf? 

And  how  the  sivift  heat  of  the  brain 

Falters  because  it  is  in  vain. 
In  autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
Knowest  thou  not  ?     And  how  the  chief 

Of  joys  seems — not  to  suffer  pain  ? 

Know'st  thoii  not  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
How  the  soul  feels  like  a  dried  sheaf 
Bojind  up  at  length  for  harvesting. 
And  how  death  seems  a  comely  thing 
In  autumn  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf  ? 

For  the  rest,  they  are  neither  potent  to  add 
to,  nor  to  detract  from,  any  estimate  of  the 
value  of  Rossetti 's  work  in  poetry. 

62 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

When  all  is  said  for  and  against  the  poetry 
of  Dan.e  Gabriel  Rossetti,  there  remains 
this  substantial  basis  for  a  permanent  fame  ; 
he  has  written  the  House  oj  Life,  one  of  the 
three  great  sonnet-sequences  in  our  lan- 
guage ;  The  Blessed  Damozel,  the  most 
spiritual,  most  imaginative,  most  exquisitely 
beautiful  sustained  lyric  of  our  time  ;  and 
The  King's  Tragedy,  a  poem  of  imaginative 
force  and  sheer  poetic  power,  in  itself 
sufficient  to  ensure  for  its  author  a  lasting 
reputation.  No  one  can  read  the  last- 
named  without  reahsing  the  high  position 
of  Rossetti  as  a  poet,  for  it  is  of  the  universal 
order  of  poetry. 

A  popular  poet  in  the  sense  of  being  a 
poet  understood  and  loved  by  the  average 
reading  pubhc  I  do  not  believe  he  will  ever 
become  ;  but  he  is  pre-eminently  a  poet  for 
poets,  for  all  lovers  of  fine  literature  as 
literature,  and  those  for  whom  the  veil  of 
extreme  refinement  is  as  necessary  for 
adequate  enjoyment  as  to  others  it  is  only 
a  cloudy  mist,  a  hindrance.  As  the  poet  of 
The  King's  Tragedy  he  will  have  the  wider 
and  perhaps  truer  fame  ;  as  the  poet  of 
The  House  of  Life  he  will  have  an  endless 
charm  for  the  few  whose  ears  are  as  delicately 
attuned  to  the  music  of  verse  as  of  instru- 

63 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

ments,  and  to  whom  his  sometimes  over- 
subtle   and  over-elaborate   style   will  be   a 
permanent  and  satisfying  attraction.     Ros- 
setti's  cardinal  fault  as  a  poet,   more   espe- 
cially as  a  sonnet-writer,  is  to  become  too 
literary  ;     he    often    strikes    one    as    being 
unable  to  act  on  the  poetic  impulse  as   it 
comes,  and  rather  to  accept    it    and  play 
with  it  as  a  cat  does  with  a  mouse.     Many 
sonnets  which  would  otherwise  have  taken 
very    high    rank    are    far    too    elaborately 
expressed,  a  not  infrequent  result  being  a 
['rather     wearisome     obscurity.       Nor     had 
]  Rossetti  much  sympathy  with  or  knowledge 
lof    nature.     The    outer    world    of    things 
'appealed  to  him  but  slightly,  finding  indeed 
as  he  did  his  world  of  imagination  suihcient 
and  ever  present,  a  world  most   enchanted 
and  full  of  dreams,  where  Beauty  sat  en- 
throned,   and    where    the    present    realities 
of  the  mind  were  of  infinitely  greater  import 
!  than   matters   of   deep   significance   to   the 
'  many.     "  I  do  not  wrap  myself  up  in  my 
own  imaginings,"  he  said  to  me  once,  "it 
is  they  that  envelop  me  from  the  outer  world 
^whether  I  will  or  no."     If  this  hterary  in 
contradistinction    to    more    poetically    im- 
pulsive   treatment    of    his    subjects   is    his 
cardinal    fault,    a    powerful    and    magnetic 

64 


Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse 

imagination  is  his  highest  characteristic;  and 
there  are  passages  in  The  King's  Tragedy 
and  elsewhere  which  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  surpassed  for  mind  imaginativeness 
and  spiritual  insight.  The  supernatural 
was  as  sympathetic  to  the  genius  of  Rossetti 
as  Greek  mythology  was  to  that  of  Keats.  _ 
Of  Rossetti,  may  be  aptly  quoted  that 
fine  phrase  in  Cain  :  "  Sorrow  seems  half 
of  his  immortality."  And  much  as  we  may 
welcome  the  poets  of  the  joy  and  the  beauty 
of  the  world,  it  is  not  questionable  that 
sorrow  has  been  a  motive  influence  of  in- 
calculable value  in  the  literature  of  all 
countries.  But  in  Rossetti  there  is  no  mere 
waihng  of  grief.  His  is  that  serious  sorrow, 
almost  indefinite  when  hidden  behind  the 
laughter  of  children  and  the  first  beauty  of 
spring,  sternly  grand  when  visible  in  the 
presence  of  death  and  in  the  winter  of  our 
fair  hopes.  In  his  noblest  poems,  in  the 
words  of  Mr.  Walter  Pater,  "  one  seems  to 
hear  a  really  new  kind  of  poetic  utterance, 
with  effects  which  have  nothing  else  like 
them  ;  as  there  is  nothing  else,  for  instance, 
like  the  narrative  of  Jacob's  Dream,  or 
Blake's  design  of  the  Singing  of  the  Morning 
Stars,  or  Addison's  Nineteenth  Psalm. 

1887. 

Ill  65 


>> 


SOME  REMINISCENCES  OF 
CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

One  of  the  saintliest  of  women,  as  well 
as  one  of  our  finest  poets,  passed  away 
into  that  rest  which  she  craved  so  long, 
when  Christina  Rossetti  died.  Her  life 
was  a  song  of  praise.  This  song  had  two 
strains.  Both  were  ever  present,  but  the 
austerer  was  the  dominant  and  the  more 
prolonged.  For  the  last  twenty  years  her 
voice  had  been  cloistral ;  but  all  the  time 
the  pain  of  the  world  lay  at  her  heart. 
When  she  was  a  girl,  and  when  she  was 
a  woman  old  in  suffering,  in  experience,  and 
relatively  old  in  years,  she  \vrote  in  the 
same  strain.  A  child-woman  at  sixteen 
she  already  felt,  with  something  of  pain  and 
much  bitterness,  the  poignancy  of  that 
old  world  cry  "  Vanity  of  Vanities,  all  is 
Vanity !  "  An  extraordinary  lyric  utter- 
ance from  one  so  young  and  in  externals  so 
happily  circumstanced  is  this  sonnet,  written 
before  the  author  was  seventeen  : 

66 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Ah,  woe  is  me  for  pleasure  that  is  vain, 
Ah,  woe  is  me  for  glory  that  is  past  ; 
Pleasure  that  bringeth  sorrow  at  the  last. 
Glory  that  at  the  last  bringeth  no  gain  ! 
So  saith  the  sinking  heart  ;   and  so  again 
It  shall  say  till  the  mighty  angcl-blast 
Is  blown,  making  the  sun  and  moon  aghast. 
And  showering  down  the  stars  like  sudden  rain. 
A  nd  evermore  men  shall  go  fearfully 
Bending  beneath  their  weight  of  heaviness  ; 
And  ancient  men  shall  lie  down  wearily, 
A  nd  strong  men  shall  rise  up  in  weariness  ; 
Yea,  even  the  young  shall  answer  sighingly 
Saying  one  to  another  :   "  How  vain  it  is  !  " 

I  have  no  record  of  the  exact  date  when 
I  met  Miss  Rossetti  for  the  first  time  ;  but  as 
it  was  not  more  than  a  few  months  after  I  had 
come  to  know  Frederick  Shields,  the  artist 
with  whom  Rossetti  was  wont  to  declare, 
lay  the  hopes  of  reUgious  art  in  England, 
it  must  have  been  in  the  autumn  of  1880.* 

*  Though  a  painter  and  decorative  artist  of 
remarkable  individuality  and  distinction  in  the 
genre  of  Religious  Art,  Frederick  Shields'  name  is 
still  relatively  unfamiliar  in  England.  His  earliest 
adequate  recognition,  beyond  that  of  Rossetti 
and  the  limited  Rossettian  circle,  was  in  a  paper 
pubhshed  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  October  1882, 
entitled  An  English  Interpreter.  He  is  best  known 
by  his  decorations  in  fresco  and  stained  glass  in  the 
chapel  of  Eaton  Hall,  Cheshire,  and  by  his  decora- 
tions in  oil  on  the  walls  and  entrance  of  the  Chapel 
of  Rest,  in  the  Bayswater  Road,  London. 

67 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

I  recall  easily  the  particulars  of  that  first 
meeting.  I  had  called  upon  some  friends 
in  Bloomsbury,  and  found  there  members  of 
the  family,  and  two  guests,  seated  before 
a  (for  the  moment)  flameless  fire.  Neither 
gas  nor  lamp  illumined  the  room  ;  I  was 
not  surprised  at  the  gloom,  for  this  "  shadow- 
time,"  as  it  was  called  in  that  house,  was  a 
luxury  habitual  there.  The  appearance  of 
a  caller  who  was  not  a  stranger  caused  only 
a  momentary  interruption  in  what  had  been 
an  animated  conversation  ;  and  almost 
immediately  the  lady,  whose  voice  was 
audible  as  I  entered,  resumed  the  rapid 
course  of  an  extraordinarily  fluent  diction. 
She  was  giving  a  vivid  account  of  her  ex- 
periences with  slum  children  in  the  country. 
"  Moreover,"  she  continued,  "  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  not  possible  for  any  one 
to  live  a  happy  hfe  unless  he  or  she  has  at 
least  a  brief  sojourn  in  the  country  every 
year." 

At  this  point  a  singularly  clear  ripphng 
laugh  interrupted  the  speaker.  I  noticed 
at  once  its  quality  as  well  as  its  spontaneity 
and  winsomeness.  This  was  followed  by 
a  few  words,  and,  pleased  as  I  was  by  the 
laugh,  I  was  more  pleased  by  the  tone  in 
which  the  words  were  spoken.     The  voice 

68 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

had  a  bell-like  sound,  like  that  of  a  resonant 
crystal.  The  pronunciation  was  unusually 
distinct,  and  the  words  came  away  from  the 
mouth  and  hps  as  cleanly  as  a  trill  from  a 
bird.  Though  so  exquisitely  distinct  the 
voice  was  not  in  the  least  mannered  or 
affected,  and  except  for  a  peculiar  lift  in 
the  intonation,  there  was  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose it  was  not  that  of  an  Englishwoman. 
"  Ah,"    she    said,     "  there    comes    in    the 

delightful    enthusiast.     But,    Mrs.    ,    I 

assure  you  that  your  good  heart  is  mistaken. 
There  are  hundreds  and  thousands  of  us 
who,  for  one  reason  or  another,  never  escape 
from  London.  I  may  speak  for  myself,  alas, 
who  am  not  only  as  confirmed  a  Londoner 
as  was  Charles  Lamb,  but  really  doubt  if  it 
would  be  good  for  me,  now,  to  sojourn 
often  or  long  in  the  country  ;  and  you  must 
remember  that  there  are  more  Lambs  and 
Words  worths  among  us  townfolk,  and  that 
as  we  are  bred  so  we  live." 

"  But,"  broke  in  the  lady  to  whom  she 
was  speaking,  "you  yourself  must  admit 
that  you  would  be  far  happier  in  the  peace 
and  the  beauty  of  the  country,  which  is 
so  infinitely  more  poetic,  in  every  way  so 
much  more  beautiful,  than  the  town  !  " 

How  cool  and  quiet   the  bell-hke  voice 

69 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

sounded,  after  the  impetuous  utterance 
which  had  interrupted  it  !  "I  am  of 
those  who  think  with  Bacon  that  the 
Souls  of  the  hving  are  the  Beauty  of  the 
World  !  " 

"  That  is  a  beautiful  saying  ;  but  now 
let  me  ask,  do  not  you  yourself  find  your 
best  inspiration  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  with  a  low  deprecating  laugh. 
*'  Oh  dear,  no  !  I  know  it  ought  to  be  so. 
But  I  don't  derive  my  inspiration,  as  you 
call  it — though  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say 
so,  I  think  the  word  quite  inapposite,  and 
to  be  used  of  very  few,  and  then  only  in  a 
most  hteral  sense — I  don't  derive  anything 
from  the  country  at  first  hand  !  Why,  my 
knowledge  of  what  is  called  nature  is  that 
of  the  town  sparrow,  or,  at  most,  that  of 
the  pigeon  which  makes  an  excursion  oc- 
casionally from  its  home  in  Regent's  Park 
or  Kensington  Gardens.  And,  what  is 
more,  I  am  fairly  sure  that  I  am  in  the 
place  that  suits  me  best.  After  all,  we  may 
enjoy  the  majesty  and  mystery  of  the  ocean 
without  ever  adventuring  upon  it ;  and  I, 
and  thousands  of  other  Londoners,  from 
the  penniless  to  those  who  are  as  relatively 
poor  as  I  am,  are  in  the  position  of  those  who 
love  the  sea,  and  understand  too,  in  a  way, 

70 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossefti 

its  beauty  and  wonder,  even  though  we  reside 
in  Bloomsbury  or  Whitechapel." 

I  forget  what  followed,  but  a  minute 
or  two  later  a  servant  lighted  the  lamp. 
As  she  did  so  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  my 
sweet -voiced  neighbour,  a  short  plain  woman, 
apparently  advanced  in  middle  age,  with, 
as  the  most  striking  feature  at  first  glance, 
long  heavy  eyehds  over  strangely  pro- 
truding eyes.  I  noticed  that  she  veiled 
herself  abruptly  as  she  rose  and  said  good- 
bye. As  she  moved  away  it  was  with  what 
I  can  describe  only  as  an  awkward  grace. 

One  thing  after  another  interfered  with 
the  question  that  was  on  my  lips,  and  the 
outcome  was  that  I  left  without  knowing 
who  the  lady  was  whose  words  and  voice 
had  impressed  me  so  much.  Two  things 
remained  with  me  beyond  that  day  ;  not, 
strangely  enough,  primarily,  the  memory  of 
the  delicate  precision  and  natural  rhythm 
of  her  speech  or  the  pecuhar  quality  of  her 
voice,  but  the  rapid,  almost  furtive,  way  in 
which  she  had  drawn  her  veil  over  her  too 
conspicuous  eyes,  as  soon  as  the  room  was 
lighted,  and  her  concurrent  haste  to  begone — 
this,  and  the  quotation  from  Bacon,  "The 
Souls  of  the  Li\ang  are  the  Beauty  of  the 
World."     It    is    a    noble    saying,    and    its 

71 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

significance  would  then  have  been  enhanced 
for  me  if  I  had  known  that  I  heard  it  for 
the  first  time  from  the  hps  of  Christina 
Rossetti. 

Ultimately  I  came  to  know  her  through 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  Before  this  I  had 
been  misled  as  to  her  attributes  and  idio- 
syncrasies. My  informant  would  have  it 
that  Miss  Rossetti  was  a  gloomy  and  even 
bigoted  religionist  ;  that,  recluse  as  she  was 
socially,  she  was  correspondingly  morose  in 
herself,  that  she  was  morbidly  sensitive  to 
her  appearance,  having  at  one  time  been 
comely,  and  even  in  her  youth,  beautiful ; 
in  a  word,  she  was  now  unable  to  reconcile 
herself  to  her  altered  looks,  a  change  due  to 
an  illness  which  had  affected  the  eyeballs. 

One  night,  when  Rossetti  was  narrating 
some  anecdotes  of  The  Germ  days,  he  began 
to  speak  of  his  sister  Christina.  Noting  my 
interest  he  added  further  particulars  not 
only  concerning  "  the  genius  of  the  family," 
as  he  called  her,  but  also  about  his  other 
sister,  Maria  Francesca,  his  brother,  and  his 
parents — details  then  unknown  to  me, 
though  in  the  main  now  so  familiar  to  all 
lovers  of  the  poetry  of  Gabriel  and  Christina 
Rossetti. 

He  had  a  great  admiration  for  his  elder 

72 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

sister.  "  She  was  the  Dante  of  our  family," 
he  said  incidentally.  "  Christina,"  he  added, 
"was  the  daughter  of  what  was  noblest  in 
our  father  and  beautiful  in  our  mother. 
But  no  one  was  ever  afraid  of  Christina. 
Maria  was  a  born  leader  ;  Christina  a  born 
apostle.  In  my  boyhood  I  loved  Maria 
better  than  any  one  in  the  world.  I  don't 
think  she  ever  came  into  her  proper  inherit- 
ance. She  might  have  topped  us  all, 
though  of  course  she  hadn't  Christina's 
genius.  She  used  to  be  pitiful  to  her  younger 
sister,  who  was  delicate  and  rather  demure  ; 
and  Christina  simply  worshipped  her.  I 
remember  how  shocked  they  were  when, 
both  having  expressed  their  envy  of  their 
martyred  sisters  of  olden  days,  I  said 
they  had  more  than  their  share  of  martyr- 
dom in  having  such  a  vagabond  brother  to 
look  after." 

When  she  was  still  a  child  (not  more 
than  twelve,  if  Rossetti  was  right)  Christina 
became  poignantly  melancholy  whenever 
alone.  About  this  time  she  had  a  great  wish 
to  write  the  most  beautiful  hymns  of  modern 
days.  Her  earnest  efforts,  however,  were 
absolutely  commonplace,  till  one  memorable 
Sunday  afternoon  when  she  composed  some 
lines  that  were  good  enough  to  make  Maria 

73 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

prophesy  that  the  j^oung  writer  would  be  the 
poet  of  the  family  !  A  native  shyness  was 
enhanced  by  the  habitual  self-disparagement 
with  which  she  treated  herself,  in  contrast 
to  her  sister.  Her  intellectual  development, 
however,  was  rapid.  How,  indeed,  could 
it  have  been  other  than  precocious  ?  The 
Rossetti  household  was,  probably,  the  most 
remarkable  in  London.  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
patriot,  exile,  poet,  philosopher,  mystic, 
student,  artist,  and  most  genial  and  winsome 
man  of  strong  character,  was  "  a  father  in 
a  million,"  as  his  elder  son  loved  to  speak 
of  him. 

Mrs.  Frances  Mary  Lavinia  Rossetti, 
though  English  by  birth  and  maternal  paren- 
tage, was  daughter  of  an  Italian  gentleman, 
well  known  in  his  day,  Gaetano  Pohdori, 
the  translator  of  the  poetry  of  Milton  into 
sympathetic,  if  not  majestic  or  masterly, 
ItaHan.  Many  distinguished  people  came  to 
the  Rossetti  household,  and  divers  eddies  of 
new  thought  of  the  age  circulated  through 
that  little  society.  Then,  were  there  ever 
four  such  children  in  one  family  as  Maria, 
Gabriel,  WilUam  and  Christina  ?  Two  were 
endowed  with  high  as  well  as  rare  and  distinc- 
tive genius,  and  all  four  moved  in  an  atmo- 
sphere pregnant  with   stirring   ideals,    deep 

74 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

emotions   of   strong   minds,   and   \ivid   as- 
pirations. 

Christina's  childhood  was  spent  almost 
wholly  in  London.  Her  first  real  excite- 
ment ,  she  declared  once,  her  first  real  ex- 
citement away  from  home-hfe  and  the 
famihar  aspects  of  the  streets  of  Western 
London,  was  afforded  by  a  \dsit  she  paid 
with  Gabriel  to  the  Zoological  Gardens. 
The  two  amused  themselves,  after  their  first 
vivid  interest,  by  imagining  the  thoughts 
of  the  caged  animals.  Christina  thought 
the  birds  should  be  honoured  by  plaintive 
verses,  but  Gabriel  narrated  such  whimsical 
biographies  of  the  birds  and  beasts  that 
poetry  gave  way  to  fun.  Distinct  as  the 
impression  was,  it  was  not  so  durably 
vivid  as  that  of  the  walk  of  the  two  children, 
hand  in  hand,  across  the  sohtudes  of  Regent's 
Park,  "  with  a  magnificent  sunset,  which 
Gabriel  declared  he  could  see  setting  fire  to 
the  distant  trees  and  roof  ridges." 

Despite  his  interest  in  animals,  which 
became  a  freakish  fad  with  him  in  later 
life,  Rossetti  never  really  observed  lovingly 
and  closely,  except  from  the  artist's  point 
of  view.  He  would  notice  the  effect  of 
light  on  leaves,  or  the  white  gleam  on 
windy   grass ;     but    he    could     never    tell 

75 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

whether  the  leaves  were  those  of  the  oak 
or  the  elm,  the  beech  or  the  chestnut. 
If  he  cared  for  birds  and  bird-music,  it  was 
without  heed  of  distinctions,  with  no  know- 
ledge of  the  individuality  of  lilt  in  the  song 
of  thrush  or  blackbird,  robin  or  linnet. 
But  sometimes,  his  sister  told  me,  he  would 
come  home  with  a  spray  of  blossom,  "  it  was 
always  '  blossom  '  merely,  not  pear,  or  apple, 
or  cherry  blossom,"  and  once  or  twice  with 
a  bird  or  small  animal  in  a  wicker  cage,  and 
would  be  as  earnest  and  closely  observant 
of  all  details  as  any  naturalist  would  be. 

It  was  about  this  time  Christina  had  a 
dream,  which  Gabriel  promised  to  depict 
and  "  send  to  the  Academy."  (This  was 
before  The  Germ  days.)  She  dreamed  that 
she  was  walking  in  Regent's  Park  at  dawn, 
and  that,  just  as  the  sun  rose,  she  saw 
what  looked  like  a  wave  of  yellow  light 
sweep  from  the  trees.  This  "wave"  was  a 
multitude  of  canaries.  Thousands  of  them 
rose,  circled  in  a  gleaming  mass,  and  then 
dispersed  in  every  direction.  In  her  dream 
it  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  all  the  canaries 
in  London  had  met,  and  were  now  returning 
to  their  cages  !  Rossetti  was  deUghted  with 
the  idea.  He  projected  some  pictorial 
presentment    of    the    dream    in   which    the 

76 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

visionary  was  to  be  clad  in  yellow, 
and  that  the  ground  underfoot  was  to 
be  covered  with  primroses.  But  either 
the  impulse  waned  or  he  did  not  feel  able 
to  do  justice  to  the  subject  then,  and  so 
postponed  it,  or,  most  hkely,  other  matters 
of  moment  dissipated  the  intention. 

When  she  told  me  this  episode  Miss 
Rossetti  added  that  Gabriel  had  an  idea 
of  writing  a  poem  on  the  motive,  so  had  she, 
but  she  did  not  write,  as  she  was  always 
waiting  for  the  promised  poem  from  him. 
"  He  declared  the  '  motive  '  was  symboHcal, 
and  had  some  strange  personal  significance  ; 
but  he  never  explained  the  one  or  the  other, 
and  I  don't  believe  there  was  anything  but 
whim  behind  his  words.  He  was  always  hke 
that  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  though 
less  whimsical  and  more  moody  as  a  youth 
than  as  a  boy  or  man.  In  this  respect  he 
was  very  different  from  WilUam,  who  was 
invariably  simple,  direct,  and  as  quietly 
cordial  as  he  is  now.  In  fact  /  was  the  ill- 
tempered  one  of  the  family  ;  my  dear  sister 
used  to  say  that  she  had  the  good  sense, 
Wilham  the  good-nature,  Gabriel  the  good 
heart,  and  I  the  bad  temper  of  our  much 
beloved  father  and  mother." 

It  is  quite  true  that   Christina   Rossetti 

77 


Some  Retniniscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

had  to  cope  with  an  irritable  temper,  due  to 
physical  ailment.  For  myself  I  never  saw 
a  trace  of  it,  but  no  doubt  this  tendency  had 
been  subdued  long  before  I  knew  her.  An 
old  friend  of  hers  told  me  that  she  changed 
completely  in  this  respect  after  the  death  of 
her  sister  in  1876,  to  whom  she  was  passion- 
ately attached,  and  for  whose  strong  and 
saintly  character  she  had  an  admiration 
that  was  almost  extreme.  Christina  was 
wont  to  declare  that  if  Maria  had  been  the 
younger  instead  of  the  elder  sister,  she  would 
have  become  famous,  but  that  her  home 
duties  and  yearly  intensifying  rehgious 
scruples  and  exercises  prevented  her.  Cer- 
tainly the  elder  Miss  Rossetti  shared  in  that 
precocity  which  distinguished  the  whole 
family. 

Christina  began  to  compose  at  the  age 
of  eleven  ;  Gabriel  was  in  his  teens  when  he 
wrote  a  poem  which  has  become  a  classic, 
and  stands  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
lyric  achievements  in  English  literature ; 
and  WilHam  wrote  verse  of  high  quaUty 
before  he  was  twenty.  It  was  in  her 
fourteenth  year,  when  Gabriel  was  either  an 
idle,  or  else  a  feverishly  active  boy,  "  a  born 
rapscalhon,  as  our  father  sometimes  called 
him,"  that  Maria  Rossetti  translated  into 

.    78 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

blank  verse  the  greater  part  of  an  ode  by 
the  CavaHere  Campana  on  the  Death  of 
Lady  Gwendoline  Talbot,  Princess  Borghese. 
In  her  early  womanhood  she  began  the  work 
by  which  she  is  known  to  the  pubUc,  though 
A  Shadow  of  Dante  was  not  published  till 
her  forty-fourth  year  ;  that  is  about  five 
years  before  her  death.  Referring  to  this, 
Christina  once  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  I  too 
could  have  done  something  for  Dante  in 
England  !  Maria  wrote  her  fine  and  helpful 
book  ;  William's  translation  of  the  Divina 
Commedia  is  the  best  we  have ;  and 
Gabriel's  Dante  and  his  Circle  is  a  monument 
of  loving  labour  that  will  outlast  either. 
But  I,  alas,  have  neither  the  requisite  know- 
ledge nor  abihty." 

I  remember  Gabriel  Rossetti  teUing  me 
that  he  always  looked  upon  his  father's 
study  as  a  haunted  room  wherein  for  a  long 
time  he  found  himself,  if  alone,  beset  with 
a  strange  asset  ;  and  that  the  very  books 
had  a  conscious  and  external  hfe  of  their 
own.  There  was,  in  particular,  a  Vita 
Nuova  round  which  he  often  imagined  he 
saw  a  faint  hght,  which  "  filled  him  with  a 
happy  terror."  As  a  child  he  long  held 
the  idea  that  Dante  was  not  only  a  friend 
of  his  father's,  but  a    sacred  and  benign 

79 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

though  mysteriously  invisible  \dsitor  to,  if 
not  indeed  inmate  of,  the  Charlotte  Street 
household.  So  real  was  this  veritable  family 
spirit  that  the  Uttle  Gabriel  sometimes 
feared  to  meet  the  tall  gaunt  figure  of  '  Mr. 
Dante  '  on  the  dark  stairway  :  "As  soon 
as  I  could  toddle,  I  used  to  be  rather  afraid 
o'  nights  of  meeting  Mr.  Dante  in  a  horribly 
shadowy  corner  of  the  second  landing  ;  and 
as  for  venturing  into  my  father's  room  in 
twilight  if  no  one  was  there,  and  there  was 
no  fire,  I  beUeve  I  should  as  soon  have  said 
'  Damn  Dante  !  '  if  my  infant  mind  had 
known  the  use  and  meaning  of  the  exple- 
tive." 

The  elder  Miss  Rossetti  had  also  something 
of  her  elder  brother's  artistic  faculty.  Two 
or  three  designs  in  A  Shadow  of  Dante  were 
her  own  work.  In  addition  to  this  book 
there  is  one  imaginative  essay  by  her  which 
is  practically  unknown.  It  is  very  scarce 
indeed  ;  possibly  not  half  a  dozen  copies 
are  extant.  I  have  seen  one  copy  only, 
that  which  was  lent  me  by  Miss  Christina 
Rossetti.  It  was  printed  privately  in 
1846,  when  the  authoress  was  in  her  nine- 
teenth year.  The  title  is  The  Rivulet ;  a 
Dream  not  all  a  Dream,  and  the  matter  is 
an  allegory  of  life  and  rehgion,  where  the 

80 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

personalities  are  introduced  as  Liebe  (Love), 
Selbsucht  (Selfishness),  Eigendunkel  (Pre- 
sumption), and  Faule  (Indolence).  The 
"  rivulets  "  represent  the  natural  heart  of 
man;  the  "serpents"  who  are  for  ever  fouling 
the  waters,  the  devil ;  the  fruit  and  flowers 
overhanging  the  banks  and  poisonous  when 
they  fall  into  streams,  the  grosser  and  less 
palpably  sinful  allurements  of  the  world  ; 
the  crystal  mirror  which  the  guardian 
of  each  rivulet  has  in  keeping  represents  the 
Scriptures  ;  the  vases  of  perfume,  prayer  ; 
and  the  healing  water,  baptism.  The  book- 
let is  animated  by  the  same  extreme  re- 
ligious sentiment  of  renunciation  that  many 
years  later  prompted  the  authoress  to  enter 
the  All  Saints'  sisterhood. 

It  is,  of  course,  generally  known  that  the 
exiled  Gabriele  Rossetti  was  a  poet,  though 
it  is  not  commonly  understood  how  great 
was  his  reputation.  Christina  Rossetti  was 
wont  to  speak  with  gratified  pleasure  of 
the  wish  of  the  citizens  of  Vasto  (Abruzzi) 
to  see  a  suitable  memorial  in  their  chief 
piazza,  of  the  poet  patriot  and  fellow-citizen, 
"  who  was  hatched  in  little  Vasto,  but 
whose  flight  extended  throughout  Italy," 
as  his  ItaUan  biographer  says.  It  is  not 
commonly  known  that  the  poetic  strain  in 
III  8i  F 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  RosseUi 

the  family  was  shared  also  by  others  of 
the  same  generation.  In  1763  Nicola  Ros- 
setti,  a  student,  a  man  of  standing  in 
Vasto  d'^Emmone,  married  a  girl  of  the 
same  town,  Maria  Francesca  Pietrocola. 
Of  their  several  children  four  achieved 
distinction.  Andrea,  born  1765,  became 
known  as  a  canonical  orator  and  poet  ; 
five  years  later  was  born  Antonio,  a  poet 
also  ;  next,  in  1772,  came  Domenico,  who, 
as  poet  and  journahst  and  medical  writer, 
filled  well  his  comparatively  short  lease  of 
life  ;  and  then,  youngest  of  the  family  (1783) 
and  most  famous,  Gabriele. 

One  day  I  heard  some  one  speak  of  this 
to  Christina  Rossetti.  She  replied,  that 
far  from  stimulating  her,  the  knowledge 
was  something  of  the  nature  of  a  wet 
blanket.  "  I  feel  that  we — I,  at  least — 
ought  to  be  far  worthier  after  so  much 
pioneering  on  the  part  of  our  relatives.  I 
am  afraid  they  would  look  upon  us  as  mere 
appendices  to  the  Rossetti  Chapter  !  " 

It  was  not  long  after  my  first,  though 
ignorant,  meeting  with  her  that  her  brother 
spoke  to  me  about  The  Germ,  and  in 
particular  about  Christina's  poetry.  He 
told„me  of.  the  httle  book  of  hers  printed 
privately  in   1847  by  her  grandfather,  Mr. 

82 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Polidori — not,  as  often  stated,  Byron's 
Polidori,  who  was  Mrs.  Gabriele  Rossetti's 
brother,  but  Gaetano  PoUdori,  who  had  been 
secretary  to  Alfieri.  The  poetry  com- 
prised in  this  shm  booklet  was  composed 
between  the  young  poet's  twelfth  and  seven- 
teenth years.  Rossetti  enlarged  upon  the 
significance  of  this  collection.  He  recited 
the  poem  called  The  Dead  City,  and  indicated 
the  premonitions  shown  there  of  Miss 
Rossetti's  best -known  long  poem — actual 
premonitions  of  now  famihar  passages, 
though  the  formative  motive  of  The  Dead 
City  is  quite  distinct  from  that  of  The  Goblin 
Market.  It  was  he  who  pointed  out  that 
Blake  might  have  written  the  four  verses 
called  Mother  and  Child.  The  powerful 
and  remarkable  sonnet  quoted  on  the  second 
page  of  this  article  appeared  in  the  little 
book  before  it  saw  the  hght  (this  was 
Rossetti's  phrase,  and  he  added,  "  or, 
rather,  twihght  ")  in  The  Germ. 

Much  impressed  by  The  Dead  City  I  asked 
Rossetti  to  lend  me  his  copy  of  the  booklet. 
He,  however,  had  no  copy.  It  was  then  he 
suggested  I  should  ask  the  loan  of  Christina's, 
and  added,  on  my  reply  that  I  did  not 
know  her,  "  Well,  you  certainly  ought  to 
know  her.     She  is  the  finest  woman  poet 

83 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

since  Mrs.  Browning,  by  a  long  way  ;  and 
in  artless  art,  if  not  in  an  intellectual  im- 
pulse, is  greatly  Mrs.  Browning's  superior. 
She  couldn't  write,  or  have  written  The 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  but  neither 
could  Mrs.  Browning  have  composed  some  of 
the  flawless  lyrics  which  Christina  has 
written.  Go  and  call  upon  her.  I'll  write 
to  her  about  you.  And  be  sure  you  see  my 
mother." 

Of  course  I  went.  When  early  one  after- 
noon I  reached  the  dull  quiet  house  in  "Tor- 
rington  Oblong "  as  Rossetti  humorously 
called  Torrington  Square,  on  account  of  its 
shape — one  of  the  many  drowsy,  faded, 
ebb-tide  squares  of  central  London — I  recog- 
nised in  Miss  Christina  Rossetti  not  only  the 
lady  I  had  met  at  a  friend's  house,  but  the 
Christina  of  Gabriel's  portrait.  Sufficient 
likeness  lingered  in  the  placid,  rather  stout 
face  before  me  to  prove  that  Rossetti 's 
crayon  drawing  must  have  been  as  I  had 
always  understood  in  outward  similitude  as 
well  as  in  expressional  veracity. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  and  have  been 
expecting  you,  for  I  have  heard  from  my 
brother  Gabriel  of  your  promised  visit. 
Ah,"  she  added,  with  a  quick  Uttle  gesture, 
an  uphft  of  the  right  hand,  in  the  manner 

84 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

of  a  musician  recalling  some  fugitive  strain, 
"  but  I  have  seen  you  before  surely  ?  " 

Meanwhile  I  was  unconsciously  noting 
the  speaker's  appearance.  In  some  ways 
she  reminded  me  of  Mrs.  Craik,  author  of 
John  Halijax,  Gentleman,  that  is  in  the 
quaker-Mke  simpUcity  of  her  dress,  and  the 
extreme  and  almost  demure  plainness  of  the 
material,  within  her  mien  something  of  that 
serene  passivity  which  has  always  a  charm 
of  its  own.  She  was  very  pale,  though  there 
was  a  bright  and  alert  look  in  her  large  and 
expressive  azure-grey  eyes,  a  colour  which 
often  deepened  to  a  dark  velvety  shadowy 
grey,  and  though  many  hues  were  imprinted 
on  her  face,  the  contours  were  smooth  and 
young.  Her  hair,  once  a  rich  brown  now 
looked  dark,  and  was  thickly  threaded  with 
soHtary  white  hairs  rather  than  sheaves 
of  grey.  She  was  about  the  medium  height 
of  women,  though  at  the  time  I  thought 
her  considerably  shorter.  With  her  quietude 
of  manner  and  self-possession  there  was  a 
certain  perturbation  from  this  meeting  with 
a  stranger,  though  one  so  young  and  un- 
known. I  noted  the  quick,  ahghting  glance, 
its  swift  withdrawal,  also  the  restless  inter- 
mittent fingering  of  the  long  thin  double 
watch-guard  of  Hnked  gold  which  hung  from 

85 


Some-  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

below  the  one  piece  of  colour  she  wore,  a 
quaint  old-fas^hioned  bov/  of  mauve  or  pale 
purple  ribbon,  fastening  a  white  frill  at  the 
neck. 

"  Now  where  have  I  seen  you  ?  "  she  re- 
sumed with  pretended  provoked  perplexity. 

"  Though  I  did  not  know  who  you  were, 
Miss  Rossetti,"  I  replied,  "  the  occasion  was 
made  memorable  to  me  by  something  you 
said,  '  The  Souls  of  the  Living  are  the  Beauty 
of  the  World  !  '" 

"  Ah,  now  I  remember  !  Of  course  ! 
But,  oh,  it  was  not  I  who  said  that,  you 
know.  I  merely  repeated  it.  Strangely 
enough  I  cannot  remember  where  it  occurs 
in  Bacon.  Do  you  know  ?  No  ?  Then  you 
must  help  me  to  find  out.  Do  you  know 
Richard  Garnett,  Dr.  Garnett  of  the  British 
Museum  ?  He  knows  everything,  I  am  told, 
fortunate  man  !  and  he  will  help  us  out  of 
our  dilemma." 

Thus  chatting,  she  led  me  upstairs  to  the 
small  drawing-room.  I  recollect  noticing 
the  delicate  courtesy  of  the  "  us,"  and  also 
my  surprise  at  the  blithe  cheerfulness  of 
voice  and  manner,  so  utterly  unlike  the 
description  given  to  me  by  one  who  professed 
to  know  her,  but  whose  knowledge  must  have 
been  at  sight  only.     She  was  laughing  at 

86 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Gabriel's  name  for  Torrington  Square,  a 
nickname  which  seemed  to  be  new  to  her, 
when  she  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room  where  she  had  been  reading  to  Mrs. 
Rossetti. 

The  dear  old  lady — one  of  the  most 
winsome  and  dehghtful  women  of  advanced 
age  I  have  ever  met,  I  can  say,  and  who 
ever  hved,  I  would  say — won  my  allegiance 
at  once.  She  insisted  on  rising,  held  my 
hand  in  hers,  looked  benignly,  but  keenly, 
into  my  eyes,  and  said,  "  So  you  are  a  young 
friend  of  Gabriel's.  That  alone  makes  you 
welcome.  How  is  he  ?  When  did  you  see 
him  last  ?  So  late  as  last  week  ?  And  is 
he  well  ?  I  am  glad.  Ah,  Christina,"  she 
added,  looking  at  her  daughter,  as  she 
reseated  herself,  "  I  am  afraid  our  young 
friend  is  repeating  one  of  Gabriel's  kindly 
fibs  when  he  says  that  Gabriel  is  sleeping 
well  and  is  in  much  better  health." 

After  tea  Mrs.  Rossetti  asked  me  if  I  had 
ever  read  Southwell's  poetry  ;  and  on  my 
reply  that  I  had  not,  she  added,  "  My  dear 
Christina  was  reading  a  wonderful  little 
poem  of  his  just  as  your  visit  was  announced. 
I  am  sure  you  would  hke  to  hear  it.  My 
dear,  do  read  it  again."  It  was  thus  I 
came  to  know  that  wonderful  Ehzabethan 

87 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

precursor  of  "  The  Songs  of  Innocence," 
"The  BurnmgBabe."  The  poem  is  in  itself 
strangely  moving  ;  how  much  more  impres- 
sive, then,  when  recited  by  one  of  the  chief 
Victorian  poets  in  her  own  home  and  during 
the  auditor's  first  visit  ! 

I  can  see  that  small  and  rather  gloomy 
room  with  Mrs.  Rossetti  sitting  back  with 
a  white  Shetland  shawl  across  her  shoulders 
and  the  lamphght  falhng  on  her  white  hair 
and  clear-cut,  ivory-hued  features,  as  she 
waited  with  closed  eyes  the  better  to  hsten  ; 
at  the  table  Miss  Rossetti,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  right  hand,  with  her  right  elbow 
on  the  table  and  with  her  left  hand  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  book — if  I  remember 
rightly,  a  new  edition  of  F.  T.  Palgrave's 
Children's  Treasury  of  Lyrical  Poetry. 

With  an  exquisitely  clear  and  vibrant 
voice,  though  with  a  singular  rise  and  fall, 
correspondent  to  Gabriel  Rossetti's  moving 
and  sonorous  organ  music,  Miss  Rossetti 
read,  with  infinite  feehng,  the  Hues  begin- 
ning, "As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood 
shivering  in  the  snow."  Occasionally  she 
prolonged  the  music  of  a  hne  into  a  slow 
rhythm,  with  a  strange  suspiration  that, 
I  imagine,  was  characteristic,  particularly 
when  she  was  strongly  moved.     It  was  in 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

this  way  that  late  in  1885  or  early  in  1886 
I  heard  her  read  the  lyric  beginning  : 

Heaven's  chimes  are  slow,  hut  sure  to  strike  at  last. 
Earth's    sands    are    slow,    but    surely    dropping 

through  ; 
A  nd  much  we  have  to  suffer,  much  to  do, 

Before  the  time  be  past, 

with,  I  recollect,  an  unexpected  and  haunting 
iterance  of  the  line  : 

Chimes  that  keep  time  are  neither  slow  nor  fast  ; 

each  word  as  complete  and  separate  in  enun- 
ciation as  notes  of  music  struck  slowly. 

There  was  one  line  of  Southwell's  in 
particular  which  she  read  with  communi- 
cative emotion — an  emotion  felt  by  Mrs. 
Rossetti,  who  opened  her  eyes,  glanced  at 
her  daughter,  and  with  murmuring  lips 
reclosed  her  eyes.     It  was  the  line  : 

Love  is  the  fire,  and  sighs  the  smoke,  the  ashes  shame 
and  scorn. 

During  that  visit,  again,  I  had  cause  to  note 
how  scrupulous,  if  at  the  same  time  reticent, 
Christina  Rossetti  was  in  any  matter  where 
conscience  impelled  her  to  a  protest,  though 
always  one  gentle,  or  at  least  courteous. 
Nor   did   the  rigour   of  her   views  involve 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossctti 

her  in  any  narrowness  of  judgment,  much 
less  in  bigotry. 

I  may  quote  aptly  here  one  or  two  letters 
from  among  those  she  wrote  to  me  on  several 
occasions.  At  the  beginning  of  May  1884 
I  called  to  see  Miss  Rossetti,  and  to  leave 
her  a  just  pubhshed  volume  of  verse,  but 
failed  to  find  her  at  home.  The  poem 
I  most  cared  for  was  the  Epilogue  Madre 
Natura,  but  instinct  told  me  Miss  Rossetti 
would  neither  hke  nor  approve  so  pagan  an 
utterance  and  surmise  was  correct. 

"  30   TORRINGTON  SQUARE, 

"  May  3,  1884. 

"...  I  might  say,  '  Why  do  you  call  just 
when  we  are  out  ?  '  only  that  you  might 
retort,  '  Why  are  you  out  just  when  I  call  ?  ' 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  new 
volume  and  yet  more  for  the  kindness  which 
enriches  the  gift.  You  know  how  my  mother 
and  I  hold  you  in  friendly  remembrance." 
(Then  follow  some  kindly  words  of  dis- 
crimination and  praise  ;    and  finally  this  :) 

"Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  say  anything  about 
Madre  Natura  ?  I  daresay  without  my 
taking  the  hberty  of  expressing  myself  you 
can  (if  you  think  it  worth  while)  put  my 
regret  into  words.  ..." 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Though  I  cannot  recall  what  I  wrote, 
write  I  did  evidently  ;  and  obviously,  also, 
with  eagerness  to  prove  that,  while  I  ac- 
cepted her  gentle  reproof  in  the  spirit  she 
advanced  it,  I  held  the  point  of  view 
immaterial ;  and  no  doubt  a  very  crude 
epistle  it  was,  in  both  thought  and  diction. 

"  May,  5,  1884. 

"...  Your  friendliness  and  courtesy 
invite  mine ;  pray  beUeve  in  mine  whatever 
I  say,  as  I  beheve  in  yours  in  spite  of  what 
you  say. 

"Will  you  not,  on  consideration,  agree  with 
me  that  it  is  out  of  the  question  for  a 
Christian  really  to  believe  what  every 
Christian  professes  to  believe,  and  yet 
to  congratulate  a  friend  on  beUeving  some- 
thing contrary  ?  On  your  having  passed 
from  a  cruder  form  of  negation  I  do  heartily 
congratulate  you.  And  now  ,  .  .  nothing 
but  goodwill  and  the  desire  to  do  right 
move  my  pen  ..." 

I  quote  these  extracts  from  personal  letters 
only  because  of  their  inherent  interest,  as 
illustrative  of  a  distinctive  trait  in  the 
character  of  Christina  Rossetti.  From  one 
more,  written  in  1886,  is  a  point  of  interest, 

91 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

concerning  Christina  Rossetti  the  poet  :  "I 
heartily  agree  in  setting  the  essence  of  poetry 
above  the  form."  This  point  she  extended  on 
a  later  occasion,  when  she  said  that  the 
whole  question  of  the  relative  value  of  the 
poetic  spirit  of  a  poem  and  the  form  of  that 
poem  lay  in  this  :  that  the  spirit  could  exist 
without  form,  whereas  the  form  was  an 
impossibihty  without  the  spirit,  of  which 
it  was  the  lovely  body. 

More  than  ever  after  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Rossetti,  with  broken  health  and  a  deep 
seated  ill  that  was  wearing  her  away, 
Christina  Rossetti  turned  her  face  to  that 
world  of  soul,  which  indeed  had  always 
been  to  her  a  near  and  living  reality.  The 
rumour  of  other  waters  was  ever  in  her 
ears.  The  breath  of  another  air  was  upon 
her  brow.  The  assertion,  sometimes  made, 
that,  in  later  hfe,  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic, 
is  incorrect.  From  her  girlhood  to  her  death 
she  was  strictly  a  member  of  the  AngUcan 
Church.  Naturally,  she  had  much  sym- 
pathy with  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  had 
a  great  admiration  for  its  ordered  majesty 
of  organisation  ;  but,  strangely  enough,  the 
rock  which  she  took  to  be  a  beacon  of  wreck 
was  Mariolatry.  This,  at  all  times,  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  cardinal  error  in  Roman 

92 


Sotne  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Catholicism.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that 
Gabriel  Rossetti  was  more  attracted  by  the 
spiritual  and  human  significance  of  Mary  than 
by  any  other  dogma  of  Rome.  He  told 
me  once  that  the  world  would  come  to  see 
that  the  lasting  grit  in  the  Romish  faith 
— "  a  '  grit  '  which  would  probably  make  it 
survive  all  other  Christian  sects  " — was 
based  upon  this  idealisation  of  humanity, 
through  the  mother-idea,  in  the  person  of 
Mary  ;  and  that,  whatever  potent  develop- 
ment the  Protestant  sects  might  have,  "  they 
would  always,  lacking  the  exalted  recognition 
of  Mary,  be  hke  Church  services  without 
music  wherein  all  can  join."  On  the  other 
hand,  it  must  be  admitted  that  Christina's 
beUef  was  a  profoundly  felt  and  hfelong  con- 
viction, while  that  of  Gabriel  was,  if  not 
intermittent  or  accidental,  more  an  ex- 
pression of  the  opining  temperament  than 
of  the  convinced  intellect. 

In  one  place  exphcitly,  as  in  a  hundred 
places  indirectly.  Miss  Rossetti  has  affirmed 
her  faith.  In  one  of  the  httle  known  prose 
books  she  wrote  in  later  hfe  (which  as  she 
said  once,  snuHng  rather  sadly  the  while, 
the  hterary  world  that  praised  her  so  much 
studiously  ignored)  there  is  this  significant 
passage  :    "To  myself  it  is  in  the  beloved 

93 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Anglican  Church  of  my  Baptism  that  these 
things  are  testified,  a  hving  Branch  of  that 
Holy  One,  Catholic  and  Apostolic  Church 
which  is  authoritatively  commended  and 
endeared  to  me  by  the  Word  of  God. 
Christ,  Whose  mystical  body  She  is,  is  her 
over-ruling  Will  and  Power  !  " 

I  think  it  was  in  January  of  1886  that, 
for  the  last  time,  I  heard  Miss  Rossetti  read 
anything  of  her  own.  It  was  not  long — 
some  months,  perhaps — since  she  had  pub- 
lished one  of  the  least  known  of  her  books, 
though  one  most  characteristic  and  strangely 
fascinating,  for  all  its  Daily  Companion 
appearance,  and,  in  a  sense,  style.  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  Time  Flies  gave  her 
more  pleasure  in  contemplation  than  was 
afforded  by  any  other  book  of  hers.  It 
is,  of  course,  a  religious  "daily  companion," 
and  is  occupied  largely  with  strictly  religious 
comments ;  but  it  has  many  delightful 
(and  to  those  who  knew  Miss  Rossetti, 
most  characteristic)  passages  and  anecdotes. 
Above  all,  however,  it  is  notable  for  its 
lovely  lyrics,  interspersed  throughout  the 
volume  like  white  and  purple  lilac-bushes 
in  a  lawned  and  gravelled  convent  garden. 
Sometimes  there  are  hnes  of  extraordinary 
poignancy  and  beauty,  straight   from  the 

94 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

lyric  emotion  wrought  from  the  ecstasy 
in  heart  and  brain,  as,  for  example,  these 
Hnes,  so  appeahng  as  well  as  so  idiosyn- 
cratic : 

Turn,  transfigured  Pain 

Sweetheart,  turn  again, 

For  fair  Thou  art  as  moonrise  after  rain. 

But  indeed  the  whole  poem  should  be  quoted : 

Joy  is  but  sorrow 

While  we  know 

It  ends  to-morrow — 

Even  so  ! 
Joy  with  lifted  veil 
Shows  a  face  as  pale 
As  the  fair  changing  moon  so  fair  and  frail. 

Pain  is  hut  pleasure. 

If  we  know 

It  heaps  up  treasure  : — 

Even  so  ! 
Turn,  transfigured  Pain 
Sweetheart,  turn  again 
For  fair  Thou  art  as  moonrise  after  rain. 

In  some  of  these  lyrics  there  is  a  strange 
note  of  impassioned  mysticism,  as  in  the 
short  rondeau  for  January  i6,  exemphfied 
in  these  three  lines  : 

Love  weighs  the  event,  the  long  p  re-history 
Measures  the  depth  beneath,  the  height  above, 
The  mystery  with  the  ante-mystery. 

95 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

In  the  lyric  for  March  7  there  is  a  music  like 
that  of  Gabriel  Rossetti's  Sea-Limits,  a 
haunting  ululation  such  as  that  of  Tenny- 
son's Crossing  the  Bar  : 

Earth  has  clear  call  of  daily  bells, 
A  rapture  where  the  anthems  are, 
A  chancel  vault  of  gloom  and  star, 
A  thunder  where  the  organ  swells  : 
Alas,  man's  daily  life — what  else  ? — 
Is  out  of  tune  with  daily  hells. 

While  Paradise  accords  the  chimes 
Of  Earth  and  Heaven  :  its  patient  pause 
Is  rest  fulfilling  music's  laws. 
Saints  sit  and  gaze,  where  oftentimes 
Precursive  flush  of  morning  climbs 
And  air  vibrates  with  coming  chimes. 

Of  those  she  read  me  I  am  haunted  most, 
because  of  the  exquisite  cadence  of  her  in- 
tonation, by  the  memory  of  one  (that  for 
March  5)  beginning: 

Where  shall  I  find  a  white  rose  blowing  ? 
Out  in  the  garden  where  all  sweets  be. 
But  out  in  my  garden  the  snow  was  snowing. 
And  never  a  white  rose  opened  for  me. 
Naught  but  snow  and  wind  were  blowing 
And  snowing. 

How  well,  too,  I  remember  that  February  11, 
No  More  ;  and  this  for  March  3,  a  dialogue  of 
Life  and  Death,  with  the  Soul  as  protagonist 

96 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rosseiti 

— an  actual  protagonist,  though  here  rather 
a  ball  between  two  players,  dumb  and 
passive  in  all  its  blind  bafflings  to  and  fro  : 

Laughing  Life  cries  at  the  feast, — 
Craving  Death  cries  at  the  door, — 
"  Fish  or  fowl,  or  fatted  beast  ? 

Come  with  me,  thy  feast  is  o'er  ! 
Wreathe  the  violets."     "  Watch  them  fade." 
"  I  am  sunlight.     I  am  shade  : 
I  am  the  sun-burying  west.     I  am  rest : 
Come  with  me,  for  I  am  best." 

Since  then  how  often  I  have  recalled  that 
marvellous  yet  so  simple  and  obvious  hne, 
as  Shakespearean  as  Gabriel  Rossetti's 
"  The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the 
hill,  Like  any  hill-flower," 

the  sun-burying  west ! 

There  were  other  fragmentary  hnes  or 
couplets  which  impressed  themselves  keenly 
on  the  memory  :  for  example, 

All  through  this  race  of  life  which  shelve? 
Downward  to  death  ; 

and 

Lo,  the  Hope  we  buried  with  sighs 
Alive  in  Death's  eyes  ! 

Time  Flies  is  dedicated    "  To   my  Beloved 
Example,  Friend,  Mother." 
Ill  97  G 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossctti 

After  the  death  of  Mrs.  Rossetti  her 
daughter  devoted  herself  to  her  old  aunts  : 
Miss  Charlotte  Lydia  Polidori  who  died  in 
1890  at  the  age  of  eighty-seven,  and  Miss  Eliza 
Harriet  Polidori  at  the  age  of  eighty-four. 
There  is  now  in  Christ  Church,  Woburn 
Square,  the  pendant  with  star  and  crescent 
in  diamonds  which  his  Imperial  Majesty  the 
Sultan  presented  to  Miss  Harriet  Polidori, 
in  recognition  of  her  distinguished  services 
as  a  nurse  in  the  Crimean  campaign. 

In  these  sad  and  lonely  last  years  Christina 
Rossetti  published  two  books  :  a  volume 
of  Collected  Devotional  Poems  (1883)  and  one 
of  prose,  consisting  of  keen  and  vivid 
commentaries  on  the  Revelation  of  St.  John, 
entitled,  with  characteristic  humility.  The 
Face  0/  the  Deep,  for  these  she  thought  were 
but  an  individual  ripple  on  the  surface 
of  revealed  truth. 

One  of  my  most  cherished  memories  is  of 
a  night  at  Birchington,  on  the  Kentish 
coast,  in  March  1892.  It  had  been  a  lovely 
day.  Rossetti  asked  me  to  come  out  with 
him  on  the  chff  for  a  stroll ;  and  though- 
he  leaned  heavily,  and  dragged  his  hmbs 
wearily  as  if  in  pain,  he  grew  more  cheerful 
as  the  sunlight  warmed  him.  The  sky  was 
a  cloudless  blue,  and  the  singing  of  at  least 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

a  score  of  larks  was  wonderful  to  listen  to. 
Everywhere  spring  odours  prevailed,  with 
an  added  pungency  from  the  sea-wrack 
below.  Beyond,  the  sea  reached  to  far 
horizons  of  purple-shaded  azure.  At  first 
I  thought  Rossetti  was  indifferent  :  the 
larks  made  merely  a  confused  noise  ;  the 
sunglare  spoilt  the  pleasure  of  the  eyes  ; 
the  sea-breath  carried  with  it  a  damp  chilly 
But  this  mood  gave  way.  He  let  go  my 
arm,  and  stood  staring  seaward  silently  ; 
then,  still  in  a  low  and  tired  voice,  but  with 
a  new  tone  in  it,  he  murmured,  "  It  is 
beautiful — the  world,  and  life  itself.  I  am 
glad  I  have  hved."  Insensibly,  thereafter, 
the  dejection  lifted  from  off  his  spirit,  and  for 
the  rest  of  that  day  and  evening  he  was 
noticeably  less  despondent. 

The  previous  evening  Christina  Rossetti — 
then  at  Birchington  on  a  nursing  visit — 
Rossetti,  and  myself,  were  seated  in  semi- 
twilight  in  the  long,  low-roofed  sitting-room 
of  the  Bungalow.  She  had  been  reading 
to  him,  but  he  had  grown  weary  and 
somewhat  fretful.  Not  wishing  to  disturb 
him,  Miss  Rossetti  made  a  sign  to  me  to  come 
over  to  the  window,  and  there  drew  my 
attention  to  a  quiet-hued  but  very  beau- 
tiful sunset.     While  we  were  gazing  at  it, 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Rossetti,  having  overheard  an  exclamation  of 
almost  rapturous  delight  from  Christina, 
rose  from  his  great  armchair  before  the  fire 
and  walked  feebly  to  the  window.  Thence 
he  stared  blankly  upon  the  dove-tones  and 
pale  amethyst  of  the  sky.  I  saw  him  glance 
curiously  at  his  sister,  and  then  look  again 
long  and  earnestly.  But  at  last,  with  a  voice 
full  of  chagrin,  he  turned  away  indifferently, 
with  the  remark  that  he  could  not  see  what 
it  was  we  admired  so  much.  He  projected 
his  moods  upon  nature ;  nature  did  not 
induce  them  in  him.  "It  is  all  grey  and 
gloom,"  he  added  ;  nor  would  he  hear  a  word 
to  the  contrary,  so  ignorant  was  he  of  the 
havoc  wrought  upon  his  optic  nerve  by  the 
chloral  poison  which  did  so  much  to  shorten 
his  life. 

After  he  had  gone  to  bed,  Miss  Rossetti 
spoke  sadly  of  this  dulling  of  his  sensitive- 
ness, and  feared  that  it  was  indeed  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  "  Poor  Gabriel," 
she  added,  "  I  wish  he  could  have  at  least 
one  hopeful  hour  again."  It  was  with 
pleasure,  therefore,  that  next  day  she  heard 
what  he  had  said  upon  the  cliff,  and  how 
he  had  brightened. 

The  evening  that  followed  was  a  happy 
one,    for,    as     already   narrated,     Rossetti 

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Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

grew  so  cheerful,  relatively,  that  it  seemed 
as  though  the  shadow  of  death  had  lifted. 
What  makes  the  episode  so  doubly  memor- 
able to  me  is  that,  when  I  opened  the  door 
for  Miss  Rossetti  when  she  bade  me  good- 
night, she  turned,  took  my  hand  again,  and 
said  in  a  whisper,  "I  am  so  glad  about 
Gabriel,  and  grateful." 

After  the  death  of  Miss  Harriet  Pohdori, 
Christina  became  almost  a  recluse.  Of  the 
burden  of  Ufe  she  had  long  been  weary 
and  for  surcease  therefrom  she  longed 
without  ceasing.  Her  death,  at  the  festival 
of  the  Epiphany,  a  season  which  she  herself 
has  chronicled  in  lovely  verse,  must  have 
come  to  her  as  the  floodtide  of  a  long- 
delayed  happiness. 

The  weight  of  the  pain  of  the  world,  the 
sorrow  of  hfe,  had  long  made  hard  the  bhthe 
cheerfulness  which  she  wore  so  passing  well, 
though  it  was  no  garment  chosen  for  its 
comeliness,  but  because  of  its  refreshment 
for  others.  An  ordered  grace  was  hers  in  all 
things,  and  in  this  matter  of  cheerfulness 
she  created  what  she  did  not  inherit ;  rather 
she  gained  by  prayer  and  renunciation  and 
long  control,  a  sunht  serenity  which  made 
her  mind,  for  others,  a  delectable  Eden,  and 
her  soul  a  paradise  of  fragrance  and  song. 

loi 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Cheerfulness  became  a  need  of  spiritual 
growth,  as  well  as  a  thing  seemly  and 
delightful  in  itself.  She  had  ever,  in  truth 
at  least  in  later  life — and  my  acquaintance 
with  her  extended  over  a  period  of  twelve 
years — a  gracious  sweetness  that  was  all  her 
own.  An  exquisite  taciturnity  alternated 
with  a  not  less  exquisite  courtesy  of  self- 
abandonment.  She  was  too  humble  to 
speak  much  opinionatively,  unless  directly 
challenged,  or  skilfully  allured  ;  while  it 
seemed  natural  in  her  to  consider  that  the 
centre  of  interest  was  in  her  companion  of 
the  moment  and  not  in  herself.  Habitually 
she  preferred  the  gold-glooms  of  silence  ;  but 
she  would,  at  the  word  of  appeal,  or  even  at 
the  shyer  lure  which  can  express  itself  only 
through  the  eyes,  come  into  the  more  garish 
light,  or  as  it  might  be,  the  dusk  of  another's 
grief.  It  was  impossible  to  have  with  her 
even  the  shghtest  degree  of  intimacy  and  not 
experience  this  quietude  of  charm — a  quaUty 
that  made  her  so  remote  of  approach,  but 
so  near  when  reached.  How  often,  thinking 
of  her,  I  have  considered  those  lines  of 
Herbert ; 

Welcome  heare  feast  of  Lent.     Who  loves  not  thee 

He  loves  not  Temperance ,  or  Authoritie. 
*  *  *  * 

102 


Some  Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti 

Beside  the  cleaninesse  of  sweet  abstinence, 
Quick  thoughts  and  motions  at  a  small  expense, 
A  face  not  fearing  light. 

This  "cleanness  of  sweet  abstinence"  was 
characteristic  of  the  poetic  inheritor  of 
Herbert  and  Crashaw,  whom  most  she  re- 
sembles in  quaUty  of  her  genius,  though  she 
had  more  of  fire  and  heal  than  the  one,  and 
less  of  sensuous  exuberance  than  the  other. 

This  is  not  the  occasion  for  any  critical 
analysis  of  her  beautiful  poetry.  Its  dehcate 
music,  its  exquisite  charm,  are  its  proper 
ambassadors.  Of  her  marvellous  sponta- 
neous art  scarce  anything  better  could  be 
said  by  the  most  discriminating  and  authori- 
tative critic  than  is  expressed  in  these  Unes 
of  Shakespeare  {The  Winter's  Tale)  : 

This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

1895.    _ 


103 


PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON 

."  In  this  life  calamity  follows  calamity  by 
no  apparent  law  of  cause  and  effect.  In  the 
web  that  destiny  spins  there  is  a  terrible  and 
a  cruel  symmetry,  which  no  theory  of 
'  circumstance  '  can  explain.  When  once 
the  pattern  of  their  tapestry  is  sombre, 
the  Fates  never  leave  it  incomplete."  To 
no  one  could  these  words  by  the  author  of 
Aylwin  be  more  applicable  than  to  Philip 
Bourke  Marston,  whose  death  brought  him 
the  surcease  for  which  he  had  long  3'earned 
with  an  intensity  which  had  in  it  no  shadow 
of  affectation  or  superficial  emotion.  He 
dwelt  continually  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
gloom,  for  in  addition  to  the  physical 
affliction  which  in  the  most  literal  sense 
darkened  his  whole  life,  the  evil  mischances 
of  Fate  sorely  wrought  against  him.  "  If 
one  were  not  too  insignificant  for  the  meta- 
phor," he  once  remarked,  "  I  could  with 
bitter  truth  assert  that  the  stars  in  their 
courses  have  ever  fought  against  me."  It 
is   not  given   to   many   men   of  letters   to 

104 


Philip  Boiirkc  Marston 

experience  so  much  sorrow  with  such  Uttle 
alloy  of  the  common  pleasures  of  life.  Those 
who  are  most  cruelly  afflicted  are  not  those 
who  make  loudest  wail ;  hence  the  mis- 
apprehension of  some  among  the  casual 
acquaintances  of  "  the  blind  poet  "  who 
believed  that  Marston's  compensations 
must  have  been  numerous  to  enable  him 
to  bear  the  brave  front  before  the  world 
which  was  his  characteristic  attitude.  But 
till  fatal  illness  overcame  him  he  could 
laugh  with  or  take  keen  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  a  friend,  as  if  for  him  life  had 
but  the  same  significance  as  for  the  majority 
of  men. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston  was  the  third 
child  and  only  son  of  the  well-known 
dramatist  and  poet,  Dr.  Westland  Marston. 
His  mother  was  a  woman  of  as  great  charm 
of  mind  as  of  body,  and  endeared  herself 
to  her  son  by  her  penetrative  sympathy 
and  tenderness.  Philip  was  born  in  London 
on  August  13,  in  the  year  1850  ;  his  first 
name  was  given  to  him  out  of  Dr.  Marston's 
affectionate  regard  for  his  friend,  Philip 
James  Bailey,  the  author  of  Festus.  Miss 
Dinah  Muloch  (Mrs.  Craik)  became  god- 
mother to  the  little  boy,  and  it  was  for  him 
that  the  popular  authoress  of  John  Halifax, 

105 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

Gentleman,  wrote  the  familiar  and  lovely 
lyric  entitled  Philip,  my  King.  An  un- 
conscious prophecy  was  uttered  in  one  of  the 
stanzas  of  this  poem,  a  prophecy  to  be  only 
too  adequately  realised ; 

One  day, 
Philip,  my  king, 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  and  cruel  and  cold  and  grey. 

Philip  had  two  sisters  ;  the  elder,  Eleanor 
(Nellie),  who  afterwards  became  the  wife  of 
Arthur  O'Shaughnessy,  author  of  The  Epic 
of  Women  and  of  other  volumes  of  poetry  ; 
and  the  younger,  Ciceley,  who  in  days  to 
come  was  to  prove  to  him  a  second  self. 
While  in  his  fourth  year,  his  sister  Nellie 
was  prostrated  by  scarlatina,  and  in  order 
to  render  Philip  as  secure  as  practicable  from 
the  insidious  disease  he  was  given  quantities 
of  belladonna,  probably  an  excellent  remedy, 
but  one  which  proved  overpotent  in  the  case 
of  Dr.  Marston's  delicate  and  sensitive  little 
boy.  The  eyes  are  supposed  to  have  suffered 
from  the  action  of  the  medicine ;  but 
further,  and  probably  more  irremediable, 
harm  was  endowed  by  a  blow  which 
the  child  received  during  play  with  some 
boisterous  companions.     It  was  soon  after 

io6 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

this  that  it  became  evident  his  sight  was 
seriously  affected.  Some  years  later  an 
operation  was  performed,  and  a  measure  of 
temporary  relief  was  thus  afforded  ;  but  in 
a  brief  while  it  became  plain  that  a  doom 
of  hopeless  blindness  was  in  store  for  him. 
The  best  oculists  were  consulted,  and 
everything  that  loving  anxiety  suggested 
was  done,  but  unavailably. 

Marston's  mental  powers  began  to  exert 
themselves  at  a  very  early  period,  although 
of  necessity  his  opportunities  towards  in- 
tellectual development  were  sadly  modified 
by  his  blindness.  As  it  was,  he  produced 
while  yet  in  his  teens  some  very  noteworthy 
poetry.  Poems  such  as  A  Christmas  Vigil, 
13-rics  like  The  Rose  and  the  Wind,  do  not 
read  as  if  they  were  immature  efforts.  The 
latter  is  perhaps  unsurpassed  by  any  poem 
in  our  modern  literature  written  in  an 
author's  nonage.  Marston  was  then  not 
wholly  blind — that  is  to  say,  he  not  only 
easily  distinguished  night  and  day,  and 
even  sunshine  and  cloud-gloom,  but  could 
discern  the  difference  between  men  and 
women  by  their  relative  sizes  and  the  shape 
of  their  garments  :  the  morning,  during  his 
boyhood  and  early  youth,  was  not  wholly 
deprived    of    its    beauty,    and    moonlight 

107 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

evenings  were  a  source  of  infinite  solace  and 
delight.  For  the  sea  he  early  conceived 
a  passion.  It  afforded  him  an  ecstasy  of 
enjoyment — wherein  pain  almost  as  largely 
prevailed  as  pleasure — and,  taking  his  blind- 
ness into  account,  there  have  been  few  more 
daring  swimmers  than  he.  He  would  listen 
to  the  shingly  roar  upon  the  beach,  or  to  the 
strange  rhythmical  tumult  of  the  seaward 
waves,  innumerably  marching  in  vast  bat- 
talions, or  to  the  murmur  of  the  fretful  surge 
where  the  sea  swept  against  the  shell-strewn 
sand,  with  an  expression  so  rapt,  so  intensely 
absorbed,  that  for  the  time  his  soul  seemed 
to  look  through  his  shadowy  eyes  and  to 
animate  his  face  with  the  glow  of  its  spiritual 
presence.  If  throughout  his  weary  latter 
years  he  yearned  for  anything  more  than 
for  death,  it  was  for  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  sea — its  ultimate  silence  to  be  about  him, 
its  moving  music  to  be  his  requiem.  And 
thus  it  was  that  among  the  most  treasured 
reminiscences  of  his  desolate  years  of  dark- 
ness were  those  of  broad  spaces  of  moonlight 
and  of  the  deep  lustrous  green  of  sea- 
water. 

To  a  dear  friend,  Mrs.  Moulton,  he  once 
energetically  stated,  "  No  !  I  was  not  blind, 
then.     I   couldn't   read,   of  course,   or   see 

io8 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

the  faces  of  people  ;  but  I  could  see  the 
tree -boughs  waving  in  the  wind,  and  I  could 
see  the  pageant  of  sunset  in  the  west,  and 
the  glimmer  of  a  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and 
oh,  it  was  such  a  different  thing  from  the 
days  that  came  afterwards,  when  I  could 
not  see  anything  !  " 

Philip  Marston's  first  and  not  least  loving 
amanuensis  was  his  mother,  who  not  only 
wrote  out  for  her  blind  boy  his  early  attempts 
in  prose  and  verse,  but  also  acted  delicately 
and  wisely  the  part  of  critic.  To  her  love 
he  owed  much,  nor  was  he  ever  chary  of 
acknowledgment  of  his  indebtedness.  But 
partly  as  cares  accumulated  upon  Mrs. 
Marston,  thus  preventing  her  from  such 
ceaseless  devotion  to  her  son  as  she  would 
fain  have  given,  and  partly  from  purely 
natural  reasons,  Philip's  most  incessant  and 
most  loving  companion  was  his  sister 
Ciceley,  who  may  without  exaggeration  be 
said  to  have  devoted  her  whole  life  to  her 
afflicted  brother.  A  touching  tribute  to 
her  ceaseless  sympathy  and  love  was 
given  by  the  latter  in  the  pathetic  verses 
inscribed  to  Ciceley  Narney  Marston,  two 
stanzas  of  which  I  may  here  appropriately 
quote : 


109 


Philip  Bourke  Marsfon 

Oh,  in  what  things  have  we  not  been  as  one  ? 

Oh,  more  than  any  sister  ever  was 
To  any  brother  !     Ere  my  days  be  done, 

And  this  my  little  strength  of  singing  pass, 
I  would  these  failing  lines  of  mine  might  show 

All  thou  hast  been,  as  well  as  all  thou  art. 
And  yet  what  need  ?  for  all  who  meet  thee,  know 

Thy  queenliness  of  intellect  and  heart. 

Oh,  dear  companion  in  the  land  of  thought. 
How  often  hast  thou  led  me  by  thy  voice 

Through  paths  where  men  not  all  in  vain  have  sought 

For  consolation,  when  their  cherished  joys 

Lie  dead  before  them.      ... 

*  *  *  * 

Thy  love  to  me  is  as  thy  precious  hand 
Might  be  upon  my  forehead  if  it  burned 

In  hell,  of  some  last  fever  :   hold  me  fast. 
Oh  thou  to  whom  in  joy's  full  noon  I  turned, 

As  now  I  turn,  the  glory  being  past. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  his  blindness, 
Philip  Marston's  youth  would  have  been  for- 
tunate beyond  comparison  with  that  of 
almost  any  other  young  poet  of  whom 
there  is  record.  Dr.  Westland  Marston  was 
not  only  a  successful  dramatist,  but  one  of 
the  most  popular  literary  men  in  London. 
There  were  few  houses  in  London  where  were 
frequent- mfwiows  more  enjoyable  than  those 
in  the  hospitable  abode  near  Chalk  Farm. 
There,  occasionally,  would  be  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti    and     his    brother    William,     Dr. 

no 


Philip  Boiirke  Marston 

Gordon  Hake,  William  Morris,  Swinburne, 
and  many  other  celebrities  and  "  coming 
men."  Philip  turned  as  naturally  towards 
those  benign  intellectual  influences  as  the 
heliotrope  to  the  sun  :  his  poetic  develop- 
ment was  rapid,  and  before  he  had  emerged 
from  his  teens  he  had  written — as  has 
already  been  said — some  eminently  note- 
worthy poetr}'. 

While  he  was  putting  together  the  poems 
which  were  to  make  up  his  first  volume  (a 
few  of  which,  it  may  be  mentioned  here, 
had  already  appeared  in  the  Cornhill  and 
other  magazines)  his  mother  was  prostrated 
by  what  proved  to  be  a  fatal  illness.  All 
who  knew  Mrs.  Marston  loved  her,  but  to 
no  one  was  her  loss  a  greater  blow  than  to  that 
son  whom  she  had  so  lovingly  tended. 

But  the  elasticity  of  youth  and  the  quick 
succession  of  new  and  vivid  interests  over- 
came his  despair,  and  it  still  seemed  as  if 
his  coming  years  were  not  to  be  devoid  of 
happiness  and  prosperity. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  he  won  the  love 
of  Miss  Nesbit.  Perhaps  if  his  eyes  had  not 
been  dimmed  he  would  have  foreseen  the 
shadow  of  a  new  and  irremediable  disaster. 
Miss  Nesbit  was  far  from  robust,  but  only 
a  few  friends  knew  that  she  had  devolop.ed 

III 


Philip  Bourke  Marsfon 

symptoms  of  consmnption.  She  bore  her 
unseen  crown  of  sorrow  bravely,  and  only 
when  it  became  certain  that  her  life  was  no 
longer  secure  for  any  length  of  time  did  she 
endeavour  to  warn  her  lover  of  the  inevitable. 
But  love  had  blinded  his  inner  vision,  and  he 
either  did  not  realise  or  else  refused  to  allow 
himself  to  believe  what  was  with  infinite 
gentleness  hinted  to  him. 

Before  I  pass  away  from  the  record  of  his 
youth — for  with  the  next  and  most  terrible 
calamity  he  became  old  beyond  the  warrant 
of  his  years — I  may  quote  a  few  passages 
from  an  obituary  notice  by  one  of  Marston's 
most  intimate  and  most  loyal  friends,  Mrs. 
Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  American  poet 
and  novelist,  prefixing  to  these  passages  an 
excerpt  describing  her  first  meeting  with 
the  young  poet  when  in  his  twenty -sixth 
year : 

"  I  first  met  him,"  wrote  Mrs.  Moulton, 
"  at  a  literary  evening — a  sort  of  authors' 
night — at  a  well-known  London  house, 
and  I  knew  the  blind  poet  would  be  among 
the  guests;  the  one,  indeed,  whom  I  felt 
most  interest  in  meeting.  I  soon  perceived 
him,  standing  beside  his  sister  Ciceley — 
a  slight,  rather  tall  man  of  twenty-six,  very 
young-looking  even  for  his  age.     He  had  a 

^  112 


Philip  Bourkc  Marstcn 

wonderfully  fine  brow.  His  brown  eyes  were 
still  beautiful  in  shape  and  colour.  His 
dark-brown  hair  and  beard  had  glints  of 
chestnut  ;  and  all  his  colouring  was  rich 
and  warm.  His  was  a  singularly  refined 
face,  with  a  beautiful  expression  when 
in  repose — keenly  sensitive,  but  with  full, 
pleasure-loving  lips,  that  made  one  under- 
stand how  hard  his  limitations  must  be 
for  him  to  whom  beauty  and  pleasure  were 
so  dear.  At  that  time  the  colour  came 
and  went  in  his  cheeks  as  in  those  of  a 
sensitive  girl.  .  .  .  How  many  tales  he 
has  told  me  of  his  darkened,  dream -haunted 
childhood  !  He  began  very  early  to  feel  the 
full  pain  of  his  loss  of  vision.  He  fell  in 
love,  when  he  was  not  more  than  ten  years 
old,  with  a  beautiful  young  lady,  and  went 
through  all  a  lover's  gamut  of  joys  and  pains  ; 
and  sometimes  the  torture  of  not  being  able 
to  behold  the  beauty  of  his  adored  was  so 
extreme  that  he  used  to  dash  his  head  against 
the  wall  in  a  sudden  mad  longing  to  be  done 
at  once  with  life  and  sorrow.  Yet  the  love 
of  life  was  keen  in  him,  and  his  earliest 
childhood  was  haunted  by  visions  of  future 
fame,  which  should  make  people  acknow- 
ledge that  though  blind  his  soul  yet  saw 
unshared  visions.  His  life  was  his  education. 
Ill  113  H 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

His  father's  house  was  the  resort  of  many  of 
the  intellectual  giants  of  that  time;  and  every 
day's  guests  were  his  unconscious  teachers. 
He  was  fourteen,  I  think,  when  he  first  met 
Swinburne,  who  was  just  then  the  idol  of  his 
boyish  worship.  At  that  time — so  wonderful 
was  his  memory — he  actually  knew  by  heart 
the  whole  of  the  first  series  of  Poems  and 
Ballads.  He  was  taken  to  see  his  demi-god, 
and  entered  the  sacred  presence  with  a  heart 
beating  almost  to  suffocation  ;  and  went 
home  feeling  that  his  hopes  and  dreams 
had  been,  for  once,  fulfilled.  To  the  very 
end  of  his  days  Swinburne's  friendship  was  a 
pride  and  joy  to  him." 

In  1871  a  great  event  occurred.  Song- 
Tide,  the  first  fruits  of  the  young  poet's 
genius,  was  published,  and  instantaneously 
received  a  warm  and  unmistakably  genuine 
welcome.  The  leading  literary  journals 
hailed  the  advent  of  a  new  poet,  and  that 
cultivated  section  of  the  public  which  is 
ever  alert  for  a  new  thing  of  promise 
speculated  with  interest  as  to  the  possibilities 
of  the  new  singer. 

While  there  was  still  hope  that  Miss 
Nesbit  might  recover — and  by  this  time 
the  lover's  heart  was  often  sore  beset  with 
terrible      forebodings  —  the     young      poet 

114 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

was  gladdened  by  the  receipt  of  the  first 
copy  of  the  book  over  which  he  had  long 
been  lovingly  engaged.  In  it  he  had  en- 
shrined his  love  in  many  a  beautiful  sonnet 
and  lyric,  and  in  the  delight  of  placing  the 
first  copy  in  the  hands  of  his  betrothed  he 
almost  overlooked  what  to  every  one  else 
was  becoming  too  evident.  In  the  autumn 
of  that  year  the  life  of  the  girl  he  so 
passionately  loved  flickered  to  a  close. 

With  this  great  sorrow  the  youth  of  Philip 
Marston  died  an  early  death.  Simulta- 
neously, the  faint,  glimmering  light  deserted 
the  dimmed  eyes  ;  bitter  tears,  tears  of 
many  hopeless  days  and  sleepless  nights, 
of  unavailing  regret  and  speechless  yearning, 
quenched  the  flickering  flame.  Thence- 
forth darkness  settled  down  upon  his  life. 
Verily,  it  seemed  as  if  indeed,  in  his  own 
words,  "  the  gods  derided  him." 

More  and  more  Ciceley  devoted  herself 
to  her  unhappy  brother,  alleviating  much 
of  his  grief,  endlessly  helping,  amusing,  sug- 
gesting to  and  acting  for  him.  She  became 
to  him  almost  a  necessity  of  life  ;  without 
her  he  did  not  consider  it  possible  he  could 
endure  the  infinite  weariness  and  sorrow 
which  encompassed  him. 

Brother  and  sister  went  to  live  together 

11^5 


Philip  Boiirkc  Marston 

in  lodgings,  firstly  at  Netting  Hill,  and  later 
in  the  Euston  Road.  They  had  sufficient 
means  between  them  to  enable  them  to  live 
comfortably,  and  Philip  was  entering  upon 
that  sustained  intellectual  drudgery  which 
brought  him  such  bitterly  inadequate  mone- 
tary recompense,  but  which  continually 
extended  his  sympathies  and  won  for  him 
new  friends  and  admirers.  Henceforth, 
except  for  an  interval  when  Ciceley  stayed 
with  the  Madox  Browns,  the  two  lived 
together  in  their  London  lodgings,  save 
when  they  went  into  the  country,  or  to  the 
seaside,  to  France,  and  once  to  Italy.  For 
certain  golden  weeks,  a  "  sovereign  season," 
Philip  Marston  revelled,  sightless  as  he  was, 
in  the  manifold  delights  of  Italy  ;  Florence 
and  Venice  especially  enthralled  him,  and 
throughout  his  life  the  memory  of  this  happy 
time  remained  unseared.  He  was  wont 
to  speak  of  his  experiences  in  a  manner  that 
puzzled  new  acquaintances.  He  would  dwell 
longingly  on  the  splendour  of  the  view  from 
Fiesole  or  Bellosguardo,  of  the  glory  of  light 
and  shade  athwart  the  slopes  of  Vallombrosa, 
of  the  joyous  aspects  of  Florence  itself, 
of  the  transmuting  glamour  of  the  scirocco, 
of  sunset  and  moonrise  upon  the  Venetian 
lagunes.     Still  more  would  he  puzzle  people 

ii6 


Philip  Boiirhe  Marston 

by  such  remarks  as  "  I  don't  like  So-and-so's 
appearance  :  he  has  a  look  on  his  face 
which  I  mistrust,"  or  "  London  looks 
so  sombre  ;  I  like  to  see  a  place  looking  as 
if  it  were  aware  of  such  things  as  sunlight 
and  flowers."  In  this  there  was  nothing  of 
affectation,  although  it  is  undeniable  that 
Marston  was  always  very  sensitive  to  any 
reference  to  his  blindness  :  his  sister  Ciceley 
had  become  his  second  sight.  Through  her 
he  saw  and  understood,  and  had  pleasure 
in  those  things  which  otherwise  would 
have  been  for  him  more  or  less  sealed 
mysteries. 

After  this  happy  experience — too  short, 
alas  !  and  clouded  with  sad  memories — 
Marston  settled  down  to  a  regular  literar^^ 
life.  His  means,  he  used  to  say  half- 
humorously,  were  children  of  Mercury  : 
every  note,  every  sovereign  was  winged,  and 
departed  from  his  possession  with  an  expe- 
dition which  was  at  once  mysterious  and 
alarming.  In  fact,  then  as  always,  his 
generosity  and  hospitality  knew  no  limits. 
As  these  means  gradually  began  to  disappear, 
and  as  the  struggle  for  existence  became 
keener,  his  open-handedness  knew  no  differ- 
ence, and  to  the  end  he  practised  the  same 
liberality. 

117 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

While  never  tired  of  the  company  of  that 
well-loved  sister,  naturally  he  also  formed 
new  and  valued  friendships.  From  first 
to  last,  however,  no  one  ever  quite  usurped 
the  place  of  Ciceley  Narney  Marston.  Dr. 
Gordon  Hake,  an  old  friend  of  the  Marstons, 
and  as  a  poet  the  possessor  of  Philip's 
admiring  regard,  has,  in  his  beautiful  poem, 
The  Blind  Boy,  perpetuated  the  significance 
of  the  love  of  this  brother  and  sister — two 
exquisite  stanzas  from  which  I  am  tempted 
to  quote : 

She  tells  him  how  the  mountains  swell, 
How  rocks  and  forests  touch  the  skies  ; 

He  tells  her  how  the  shadows  dwell 
In  purple  dimness  on  his  eyes. 

Whose  tremulous  orbs  the  while  he  lifts. 

As  round  his  smile  their  spirit  drifts. 

More  close  around  his  heart  to  wind, 
She  shuts  her  eyes  in  childish  glee, 

"  To  share,"  she  said,  "  his  peace  of  mind  ; 
To  sit  beneath  his  shadow-tree." 

So,  half  in  play,  the  sister  tries 

To  find  his  soul  within  her  eyes. 

The  friend  of  his  own  age  and  sex  whose 
companionship  he  most  cherished  at  this 
time  (1872),  was  the  late  Oliver  Madox 
Brown.  An  acquaintanceship,  much  ap- 
preciated   on    either   side,    developed   into 

118 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

a  friendship  which,  to  the  bhiid  poet 
especially,  meant  much.  The  two  young 
men  saw  each  other  regularly  ;  innumerable 
literary  schemes  were  talked  over  ;  poems, 
stories,  studies  from  life  were  discussed 
and  criticised  in  Marston's  rooms.  There 
one  evening  Oliver  Brown  withdrew  a  bulky 
MS.  from  his  pocket,  informed  his  friend 
that  an  acquaintance  had  sent  him  the 
manuscript  of  a  romance  for  his  perusal  and 
suggestions,  and  forthwith  began  to  read 
the  strange  and  thrilling  story  of  one 
Gabriel  Denver.  Once  or  twice  Philip's 
suspicions  were  aroused,  chiefly  on  account 
of  the  emotion  which  the  reader  could  not 
refrain  from  exhibiting,  but  still  he  was 
unprepared  for  what  followed.  The  tale 
excited  at  once  his  astonishment  and  his 
admiration,  and  on  its  conclusion  he  ex- 
pressed what  he  felt  in  the  most  emphatic 
manner. 

"  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  that 
story  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  Black  Swan,''  was  the  reply,  in  a 
voice  husky  with  emotion. 

"  And  its  author  ?     Tell  me  at  once  the 
author's  name." 

"  Oliver  Madox  Brown." 

Sincere    were    the    congratulations,    and 

119 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

genuine  the  mutual  jo}/  and  pride  :  that 
night  Oliver  went  home  with  a  foretaste 
of  fame  making  his  heart  beat  wildly,  while 
Philip  sat  awhile  in  his  darkness,  and  in- 
dulged in  many  a  fair  visionary  dream  for 
his  loved  friend's  future. 

When  the  two  were  apart,  each  wrote  to 
the  other  :  in  a  word  their  comradeship  was 
complete,  and  to  the  older  of  the  twain  it 
meant  more  than  anything  else,  save  the  de- 
votion of  his  sister  Ciceley.  A  deep  and 
all-embracing  humour  was  one  of  the  chief 
characteristics  of  Oliver  Brown,  and  he  was 
a  delightful  raconteur  ;  he  was  thus  just  the 
right  companion  for  his  blind  friend.  The 
latter  had  of  course  other  friends,  among 
whom  may  be  mentioned  his  brother-in-law, 
the  late  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy  :  indeed, 
Philip  Marston  was  one  of  those  men  pos- 
sessed of  an  occult,  magnetic  quality  of 
attraction  which  few  people  could  resist. 
Wherever  he  went  he  made  would-be  friends, 
and  without  any  apparent  effort  to  please 
he  seemed  to  exercise  a  pleasant  fascination 
over  all  who  came  in  contact  with  him. 
And  down  to  his  last  days  he  was,  in  company, 
cheerful  and  animated,  often  merry,  and 
always  genial.  He  never  wore  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve,  and  even  to  fairly  intimate 

120 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

friends  he  so  rarely  betrayed  his  secret 
desolation  that  many  of  them  have  been 
quite  unable  to  realise  what  depths  of 
wretchedness  his  forlorn  spirit  was  wont  to 
dwell  within.  Perhaps  there  is  only  one 
living  friend  of  the  dead  poet  who  ever  fully 
knew  how  dire  was  the  grief  and  despair 
which  gnawed  at  his  life. 

Suddenly  Oliver  Brown  became  unwell. 
Philip  was  anxious  but  never  looked  for 
any  permanent  ill -result.  When,  all  un- 
expectedly, he  was  told  that  Oliver  Madox 
Brown  was  dead,  the  shock  was  so  great 
that  years  elapsed  before  he  could  speak 
calmly  of  his  loss.  Of  another  bereavement, 
soon  to  follow,  he  never  spoke  at  all.  Apart 
from  his  keen  personal  sorrow  he  deplored 
the  untimely  passing  away  of  a  young  writer 
of  such  extraordinarily  brilliant  promise, 
believing  as  he  did  that  no  one  of  such  pre- 
cocious mental  powers  had  appeared  since 
Chatterton. 

The  young  painter -romancist  died  in  1874. 
The  poems  comprised  in  Marston's  volume. 
All  in  All,  had  been  read  seriatim  to  Oliver 
Brown,  but  the  book  was  not  actually 
published  till  after  his  death.  At  best  it 
was  a  volume  of  sad  memories,  and  now  one 
of  the  expected  pleasures  attendant  upon 

121 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

its  publication  was  not  to  be  realised.     All 
in  All    had    only    a    limited    success  :    its 
sadness  was  too  extreme  for  the  majority 
of  readers,  and  though,  in  point  of  workman- 
ship, it  was  superior  to  its  predecessor,  it 
was   practically   voted  too  gloomy.     Some 
critics    went    the    length    of    complaining 
that    such    a    sombre    tone    as    prevailed 
throughout  this  volume  was  either  morbid 
or  affected:    it   is   almost   needless  to  say 
that    neither    surmise   was    correct.     Irre- 
mediable  grief,  as    distinct    from    more  or 
less  placid  sorrow,  is  so  rarely  experienced  by 
men  that  it  is  not  strange  there  should  be  a 
tendency  to  consider  it  a  symptom  of  weak- 
ness  or  affectation  ;    but   if   those  of   this 
bent   of  mind  will  put   themselves   in   the 
place   of   Philip   Marston — unhappy,    often 
lonely,  smitten  cruelly  by  adverse  fate,  and 
dwelling  continually  in  blank  and  terrible 
darkness — they  will  not,  in  all  probability, 
find  themselves  strongly  impelled  towards 
the  composition  of  very  joyous  verse.     We 
are  at  best  waifs  and  strays  before  the  wind 
of  circumstance,  but  when  one  is  whirled 
hither  and  thither  in  absolute  darkness  the 
outlook  does  not  become  enlivening. 

Marston's  second  volume  was  dedicated 
to  his  father  "  with  profoundest  love  and 

122 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

admiration."  The  greater  portion  of  it 
was  occupied  by  poems  in  sonnet-form,  a 
fact  which  possibly  conduced  towards  the 
book's  limited  popularity.  That  the  author's 
attitude  was  not  one  of  absolute  despair  is 
manifest  from  his  prefatory  words  :  "In  the 
present  volume,"  he  says,  "  I  show  how  the 
love,  so  longed  for  and  despaired  of,  is  at 
last  vouchsafed  with  all  attendant  peace 
and  blessedness,  until  the  beloved  one  is 
withdrawn,  and  the  mourner  is  left  but  a 
memory,  under  the  inspiration  of  which  he 
still  aspires  to  some  great  and  far-off  good  ; 
but  is  met  at  every  turn  by  tempters  who 
would  mislead,  and  enemies  who  would  drive 
back."  The  author's  intention  was  that 
All  in  All  should  form  a  connecting  link 
between  Song-Tide  and  the  final  division 
of  the  series  of  love-poems  to  be  entitled 
A  Pilgrimage.  The  scheme  in  its  entirety 
was  never  carried  out,  though,  it  may  be 
added,  many  of  the  sonnets  in  Wind  Voices 
were  originally  intended  for  the  last-named 
work. 

Throughout  this  second  volume  it  is  easy 
to  note  how  frequently  the  poet  recurs  to 
the  theme  of  irretrievable  loss  :  passing  years 
had  blunted  the  extremity  of  his  pain,  but, 
keen  and  vital,  the  old  agony  was  only  more 

123 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

subdued,  not  vanquished.  Again,  there  is 
to  be  noted  a  loving  hope  that  in  the  days 
to  come,  if  he  be  remembered  at  all,  it  may 
be  in  union  with  her  whom  he  had  so  early 
lost  and  so  deeply  loved  : 

When  I,  at  last,  with  life  and  love  break  trust  ; 

When  the  sojtl's  yearning  and  the  body's  lust 
A  re  ended  wholly  as  a  tune  out-played  ; 

If  then,  men  name  my  name,  and  from  these  lays 
The  depth  and  glory  of  thy  soul  divine. 
Shall  not,  beloved,  my  memory  live  in  thine  ? 

Our  memories  moveless  'mid  the  moving  days, 
Intense  and  sad  like  changeless  stars  that  shine 

On  ruined  tozvers  of  a  predestined  race. 

In  this  volume  also  there  occurs  one  of  the 
noblest  and  most  simply  direct  of  Marston's 
sonnets  ;  one  which  to  all  who  love  and 
have  loved  must  be  of  strong  and  permanent 
appeal. 

NOT  THOU  BUT  I. 

//  must  have  been  for  one  of  us,  my  own. 
To  drink  this  cup  and  eat  this  bitter  bread. 
Had  not  my  tears  upon  thy  face  been  shed. 

Thy  tears  had  dropped  on  mine  ;    if  I  alone 

Did  not  walk  now,  thy  spirit  would  have  known 
My  loneliness,  and  did  my  feet  not  tread 
This  weary  path  and  steep,  thy  feet  had  bled 

For  mine,  and  thy  mouth  had  for  mine  made  moan  ; 
And  so  it  comforts  me,  yea,  not  in  vain, 

To  think  of  thy  eternity  of  sleep, 

124 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

To  know  thine  eyes  are  tearless  though  mind  weep: 

And  when  this  cup's  last  bitterness  I  drain, 
One  thought  shall  still  its  primal  sweetness  keep — 
Thou  hadst  the  peace  and  I  the  undying  pain. 

The  saddest  life  is  not  without  compensa- 
tions :  at  least,  this  stereotyped  saying 
may  pass  as  a  generalisation.  Few  men 
have  ever  had  more  friends  than  the  blind 
poet  of  whom  I  write  ;  men  and  women 
of  the  most  opposite  tastes  and  sympathies 
were  at  one  in  their  regard  and  love  for 
Philip  Marston. 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  compensation,"  he 
remarked  to  me  once,  "  in  the  way  that  new 
friendships  arise  to  brighten  my  life  as  soon 
as  I  am  bowled  over  by  some  great  loss. 
But  one's  capacities  for  friendship  get  worn 
out,  and  it  is  impossible  that  I  can  ever 
be  to  new  friends  that  which  I  was  to  those 
who  are  gone  and  am  still  to  the  one  or  two 
who  are  left." 

About  this  time  Philip  came  to  know 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  with  something  like 
intimacy.  No  man  ever  obtained  from  him 
more  fervent,  it  may  without  exaggeration 
be  said,  more  worshipful  regard.  As  a  poet 
he  considered  Rossetti  foremost  among  those 
of  the  Victorian  age,  and  his  love  for  him 
as  a  man  was  deep  and  abiding.     Nothing 

125 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

prejudiced  a  stranger  quicker  in  his  view 
than  disparagement  of  Rossetti :  admiration 
of  the  author  of  The  House  of  Lije,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a  bond  of  immediate  union. 
An  appreciative  letter  from  this  source  would 
give  him  more  joy  and  stimulus  than  would 
anything  else.  For  Swinburne,  also,  he 
always  entertained  emphatic  admiration  and 
strong  personal  regard,  and  among  his  few 
most  treasured  friendships  was  that  with 
Mr.  Theodore  Watts -Dunton.  None  of  these, 
however,  he  saw  with  any  frequency  ;  hence, 
after  the  death  of  Oliver  Madox  Brown,  he 
found  himself  in  growing  solitude. 

It  was  subsequently  to  the  publication  of 
All  in  All  that  Marston  began  to  write  for 
the  American  magazines ;  his  first  acceptance 
came  from  the  editor  of  Scribner's  Maga- 
zine. From  this  time  forth  he  more  and 
more  devoted  himself  to  production  for  the 
American  public,  with  the  result  that  he  is 
now  far  more  widely  known  as  a  poet  and 
writer  of  fiction  in  the  United  States  than  in 
Great  Britain.  He  would  fain  have  had  it 
otherwise,  but  his  poems  and  stories  met 
with  almost  invariable  rejection  in  this 
country,  and  he  became  wearied  of  what 
appeared  to  be  a  hopeless  attempt.  More- 
over, he  had  to  live,   for  his  means  had 

126 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

become  straitened.  Therefore,  it  came  to 
pass  that  nine-tenths  of  his  prose-writings 
and  the  great  proportion  of  his  short  poems 
appeared  in  American  journals  and  maga- 
zines ;  and  that  this  clever  story-teller  and 
and  writer  of  exquisite  verse  experienced 
nothing  but  disappointment  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic. 

In  1876,  as  has  already  been  recorded, 
Marston  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs. 
Louise  Chandler  Moulton.  The  friendship 
arose  from  and  was  sustained  by  a  keen 
literary  and  intellectual  sympathy.  Mrs. 
Moulton  was  interested  from  the  outset  in  the 
young  poet  and  his  work,  and  Marston  was 
soon  attracted  to  one  who  evinced  such 
kindly  interest  and  consideration.  The  af- 
fectionate devotion  of  this  most  loyal  and 
helpful  of  his  friends  did  more  than  anything 
else  to  cheer  his  remaining  years.  In  Mrs. 
Moulton,  he  not  only  found  the  most 
perfect  intellectual  sympathy  ;  her  broad 
and  cultured  taste,  her  wide  experience  of 
the  world  of  men  and  women  and  of  the 
world  of  books,  and  the  charm  of  her  society, 
all  helped — as  he  said  himself — to  make  life 
endurable.  Every  spring  Mrs.  Moulton 
came  to  London  for  the  season  :  during  her 
visits   the  blind   poet   forgot   much   of  his 

127 


Philip  Bourkc  Marston 

weary  sadness,  and  even  the  long  months  of 
absence  were  relieved  by  continuous  corre- 
spondence. 

This  friendship  was  formed  opportunely, 
for  it  was  not  long  afterward  that  Philip 
Marston  endured  another  great  loss — one  of 
the  most  deeply  felt  afflictions  of  his  life. 
Mrs.  Moulton,  as  will  be  seen,  has  best  right 
to  speak  of  this  event,  so  I  shall  let  the 
narration  be  in  her  words.  "  I  had  known 
him  and  his  sister  but  a  few  days  more  than 
two  years  when,  on  July  28,  1878,  Ciceley 
called  upon  me  at  my  rooms.  Dr.  Marston 
and  Philip  were  away  in  France,  and  she 
spoke  of  them  very  tenderly  that  morning. 
She  complained,  when  she  came  in,  of  an 
intense  headache,  and  after  a  little  I  made 
her  lie  down  to  see  what  rest  would  do  for 
her.  She  grew  worse,  and  when  the  doctor 
came  he  pronounced  her  illness  apoplexy. 
My  name  was  the  last  words  on  her  faithful 
lips  ;  and  in  the  mid-afternoon  of  that  long 
July  day  she  died.  Quite  unaware  of  her 
death — since  we  did  not  know  where  to  find 
them  with  a  telegram — and  while  she  was 
still  awaiting  burial,  her  father  and  brother 
returned.  On  this  crushing  sorrow  I  cannot 
linger.  I  think  it  was  the  cruellest  bereave- 
ment that  had  ever  come  to  our  poet.     When 

128 


PJnlip  Bourkc  Marston 

his  mother,  his  betrothed,  and  his  friend  died, 
he  still — as  he  used  often  to  say — had  Ciceley; 
but  when  she  left  him  there  remained  for 
him  no  such  constant  and  consoling  presence. 
His  other  sister  was  married,  and  therefore 
was  not  in  his  daily  life  at  all ;  and  at  that 
time  she,  moreover,  was  a  chronic  invalid. 
His  father  was  his  one  closest  tie  ;  but  many 
sorrows  had  saddened  Dr.  Marston  and 
broken  his  health  ;  and  there  was  no  one 
to  be  to  Philip  what  Ciceley  had  been,  as 
reader,  amanuensis,  and  constant  untiring 
companion." 

Although  those  sea -coast  and  inland 
voyages  wherein  he  was  wont  to  take  such 
keen  pleasure  were  still  indulged  in,  they 
were  no  longer  the  same.  In  his  own 
pathetic  words,  when  he  spoke  to  me  on  the 
subject  some  years  ago,  he  had  undergone 
the  horrible  experience  of  twice  becoming 
blind.  His  own  sight  waned  in  childhood 
and  was  drowned  in  tears  in  his  early  man- 
hood ;  his  second  sight,  his  sister  Ciceley, 
was  snatched  from  him  with  more  terrible 
suddenness. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  1880  that  I  came 
to  know  Philip  Marston.  In  the  autumn  of 
the  preceding  year  I  was  spending  an  evening 
with    Rossetti,    and     I     chanced    to    make 

III  129  I 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

some  reference  to  Marston's  poetry.  Finding 
that  I  did  not  know  the  blind  poet  and  that 
I  was  anxious  to  meet  him,  Rossetti  promised 
to  bring  us  together  ;  one  thing  and  another, 
however,  intervened  to  prevent  our  speedy 
meeting.  At  last,  one  day  in  January,  I 
reminded  Rossetti  of  his  promise,  and  the 
result  was  a  line  of  introduction  posted  direct 
to  Marston.  I  remember  that  I  was  fas- 
cinated by  him  at  once- — his  manner,  his 
personality,  his  conversation.  On  his  part 
he  gave  a  generous  reception  to  one  who 
had  no  claim  to  his  regard  save  acquaintance- 
ship with  the  poet  for  whom  we  had  in  com- 
mon the  most  genuine  love  and  reverence. 
Our  friendship  grew  steadily — but  I  need 
not  say  more  of  it  here  than  that  with  his 
death  I  have  lost  a  very  dear  and  valued 
friend. 

A  year  had  not  passed  since  the  decease 
of  Ciceley,  when  fresh  sorrows  came  in  the 
guise  of  the  deaths  of  his  sister  Nellie  (Mrs. 
O'Shaughnessy)  and  her  two  children.  Philip 
now  saw  more  of  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy. 
One  day  in  1881  I  was  sitting  with  the 
former,  when  O'Shaughnessy  ran  into  the 
room,  reminded  me  of  a  promise  to  go  to  his 
house  and  hear  him  read  the  proof-sheets 
of  his  new  book,  and  asked  his  brother-in-law 

130 


Philip  Botirke  Marston 

to  come  also.  In  less  than  a  week,  poor 
O'Shaughnessy  was  dead  :  sudden  injflam- 
mation  of  the  lungs  had  put  an  end  to  all  his 
hopes  and  dreams. 

At  Eastertide  in  the  ensuing  year  Rossetti's 
death  came  upon  Marston  with  a  great  shock. 
I  had  been  staying  at  Birchington  shortly 
before  the  end  came,  and  not  foreseeing  the 
imminent  disaster,  had  brought  back  not 
unhopeful  news  ;  and,  at  Rossetti's  request, 
I  also  planned  to  go  down  to  Kent  again  with 
Philip.  We  did  indeed  journey  thither 
shortly,  but  it  was  to  attend  the  funeral  of 
him  whom  we  both  so  loved  and  revered. 
Now,  more  than  ever,  he  began  to  believe  that 
a  malign  fate  had  foredoomed  all  his  most 
cherished  friendships  to  disastrous  endings. 
Looking  through  the  letters  which,  during 
periods  of  absence,  he  addressed  to  me, 
I  find  that  note  of  apprehension  ever 
recurring.  He  had  a  belief,  which  was  not 
altogether  fanciful,  that  he  had  lived  the 
human  life  on  earth  before.  This  idea  is 
embodied  in  the  following  sonnet  which  he 
addressed  to  me  in  the  first  year  of  our 
friendship,  the  publication  of  which  in  this 
place  may  on  this  illustrative  account  be 
excused. 


131 


Philip  Botirke  Marston 

MET  BEFORE. 

Not  surely  now  for  the  first  time  we  meet  : 
So  seems  it  to  me,  rather  I  believe 
That  in  some  vanished  state  one  had  to  grieve 
For  loss  of  other,  and  with  weary  feet 
Went  on  his  way  finding  no  sweet  thing  sweet, 
Listless  and  sad,  unwilling  to  reprieve 
His  thought  from  pain  by  joys  that  but  deceive. 
Nor  trusting  to  a  friendship  less  complete  : 
At  length  through  death  into  new  life  he  passed  ; 
And  there  he  joined  his  friend,  then  hand  clasp' d 
hand, 
Then  soul  cried  out  to  soul,  re-met  at  last  : 

So  secmeth  it  to  us,  who  understand 
Each  other  perfectly,  and  know  right  well 
How  much  there  is  on  either  side  to  tell. 

It  was  in  1882,  also,  that  another  friend, 
to  whom  Marston  had  become  much  attached 
— attracted  in  the  first  instance  by  the 
common  bond  of  unhappiness — died  under 
peculiarly  distressing  circumstances.  The 
public  who  are  interested  in  that  strange  and 
sombre  poem,  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night, 
know  vaguely  that  James  Thomson  died 
in  poverty  and  in  some  obscure  fashion. 
Philip  Marston  and  myself  were,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  the  last  of  his  acquaintances  who 
saw  him  alive.  Thomson  had  suffered  such 
misery  and  endured  such  hopelessness, 
that  he  had  yielded  to  intemperate  habits, 

132 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

including  a  frequent  excess  in  the  use  of 
opium.  He  had  come  back  from  a  prolonged 
visit  to  the  country,  where  all  had  been  well 
with  him,  but  through  over-confidence  he 
fell  a  victim  again  immediately  on  his 
return.  For  a  few  weeks  his  record  is  almost 
a  blank.  When  the  direst  straits  were 
reached,  he  so  far  reconquered  his  control 
that  he  felt  himself  able  to  visit  one  whose 
sympathy  and  regard  had  withstood  all 
tests.  The  latter  soon  realised  that  his 
friend  was  mentally  distraught,  and  endured 
a  harrowing  experience,  into  the  narration 
of  which  I  do  not  care  to  enter.  I  arrived  in 
the  late  afternoon,  and  found  Marston  in  a 
state  of  nervous  perturbation.  Thomson 
was  lying  down  on  the  bed  in  the  adjoining 
room  :  stooping,  I  caught  his  whispered 
words  to  the  effect  that  he  was  dying  ;  upon 
which  I  lit  a  match,  and  in  the  sudden  glare 
beheld  his  white  face  on  the  blood-stained 
pillow.  He  had  burst  a  blood-vessel,  and 
the  haemorrhage  was  dreadful.  Some  time 
had  to  elapse  before  anything  could  be  done, 
but  ultimately,  with  the  help  of  a  friend  who 
came  in  opportunely,  poor  Thomson  was 
carried  downstairs  and,  having  been  placed 
in  a  cab,  was  driven  to  the  adjoining 
University  Hospital.     He  did  not  die  that 

^33 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

night,  nor  when  Philip  Marston  and  I  went  to 
see  him  in  the  ward  the  next  day  was  he  per- 
ceptibly worse,  but  a  few  hours  after  our  visit 
— when  his  farewell  consisted  of  a  startling 
prophecy,  which  came  true — he  passed  away. 
Thus  came  to  an  end  the  saddest  life  with 
which  I  have  ever  come  in  contact,  sadder  even 
than  that  of  Philip  Marston,  though  his  exist- 
ence was  oftentimes  bitter  enough  to  endure. 
Thomson's  death,  and  the  manner  of  it, 
affected  Marston  very  deeply.     To  a  man 
of  his  sensitive  nature,  the  very  room  where 
his  friend  had  lain  when  his  death-stroke 
came  upon  him  was  haunted  by  something 
inexplicable,    but    tragic    and    oppressive. 
This  sense  of  haunted  rooms — in  a  some- 
what vaguer,  yet  not  less  genuine  significance 
than    the    adjective    generally    bears — was 
a  very  real  thing  to  him.     It  was  for  this 
reason  that  one  of  his  supreme  favourites 
among  Rossetti's  sonnets  was  that  entitled 
Memorial  Thresholds.     Readers  of  All  in  All 
and  Wind  Voices  will  find  numerous  passages 
which  give  expression  to  it  :    indeed,  some 
of  his  most   pathetic  poems  were  evolved 
from  this  motive : 

Must  this  not  he,  that  one  then  dwelling  here, 
Where  one  man  and  his  sorrows  dwelt  so  long, 
Shall  feel  the  pressure  of  a  ghostly  throng, 

134 


Philip  Bourkc  Marston 

And  shall  upon  some  desolate  midnight  hear 

A  sound  more  sad  than  is  the  pine-trees'  song, 
A  nd  thrill  with  great,  inexplicable  fear  ? 

Probably  no  one  has  ever  felt  more  grateful 
to  the  inventor  of  the  "  type-writer  "  than 
did  Philip  Marston.      When  he  purchased 
and    learned   the   method   of   working    one 
of  those  invaluable  machines,  he  found  him- 
self to  a  great   extent  independent  of  an 
amanuensis.     By  this  means  he  wrote  all 
his  stories  and  poems,  and  also  his  extensive 
correspondence,    without    assistance    from 
any  one.     It  was,  naturally,  a  matter  of  no 
little  moment  to  him  to  be  able  to  write, 
enfold,  and  address  private  letters  without 
having  to  place  expressions  meant  for  one 
person    within    view    of    another.     For    a 
considerable     period     he     spelt     for     the 
most  part  phonetically,  but    in   course    of 
time    he    came  to    write    fairly    correctly. 
Dr.    Westland    Marston    generally   revised 
the  type -written  sheets  intended  for  publi- 
cation. 

He  also  became  proficient  in  the  Braille 
system,  but  was  unable  to  gain  much 
satisfaction  therefrom,  owing  to  the  fact  that 
few  of  his  friends  at  a  distance  could  bring 
themselves  to  learn  it  sufficiently  for  corre- 
spondence. 

135 


Philip  Bourke  Marsion 

As  each  year  elapsed  Marston  found  his 
reputation  in  America  more  and  more 
assured.  His  stories  and  poems  not  only 
gained  acceptance  at  the  hands  of  editors, 
but  procured  for  him  many  friends.  After 
Mrs.  Moulton,  the  friend  of  oversea  whom 
he  most  valued  was  the  "  Poet  of  the  South," 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  ;  for  E.  C.  Stedman, 
R.  W.  Gilder,  Whittier,  and  others,  he  had 
a  sincere  regard. 

During  the  spring  months  of  1884  I  was 
residing  at  Dover,  and  in  April  (if  I  remember 
aright)  Philip  came  down  from  London  to 
spend  a  week  or  so  with  me.  The  weather 
was  perfect,  and  our  walks  by  shore  and  cliff 
were  full  of  delight  to  us  both  :  once  or  twice 
we  crossed  to  Calais  for  the  sake  of  the  sail, 
spent  a  few  hours  in  the  old  French  port, 
and  returned  by  the  afternoon  boat.  In  the 
evenings,  after  dinner,  we  invariably  ad- 
journed to  the  beach,  either  under  the  eastern 
bluffs  or  along  the  base  of  Shakespeare's 
Cliff.  The  music  of  the  sea,  in  calm  or 
tidal  turbulence  or  tempest,  had  an  unfailing 
fascination  for  him.  To  rest  upon  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  and  hear  the  fretful  murmur 
of  the  surge  far  below  ;  to  lie  at  full  length 
and  listen  to  "  the  long  withdrawing  roar  " 
down  the  shelving  shingly  strand  ;    to  sit 

136 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

in  some  sheltered  place  among  the  rocks, 
and  hearken  to  the  tumult  of  stormy  waters 
as  they  surged  before  the  gale  and  dashed 
themselves  into  clouds  of  foam  and  flying 
spray  almost  at  our  feet  ;  such  experiences 
as  these  afforded  him,  for  the  time  being, 
an  exhilaration  or,  again,  a  solace  which  to 
him  meant  much. 

He  took  keen  pleasure  in  learning  how  to 
distinguish  the  songs  of  the  different  birds, 
and  all  spring's  sounds  and  scents  were 
exquisite  pleasures  to  him.  How  well  I 
remember  the  rapt  expression  of  puzzled 
delight  which  animated  his  face,  as  one  day 
we  crossed  some  downs  to  the  westward  of 
Folkestone. 

"Oh,  what  is  that  ?  "  he  cried,  eagerly  ; 
and,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  what  had 
so  excited  him  was  the  crying  of  the  young 
lambs  as  they  stumbled  or  frisked  about 
their  mothers.  He  had  so  seldom  been  out 
of  London  in  the  early  spring  that  so  common 
an  incident  as  this  had  all  the  charm  of 
newness  to  him.  A  frisky  youngster  was 
easily  enticed  alongside,  and  Philip's  almost 
childlike  happiness  in  playing  with  the 
woolly  little  creature  was  something  delight- 
ful to  witness.  A  little  later  I  espied  one 
which  had  only  been  a  few  hours  in  the  world, 

137 


Philip  Bourhe  Marston 

and  speedily  placed  it  in  his  arms.  He  would 
fain  have  carried  it  away  with  him  ;  in  his 
tender  solicitude  for  it  he  was  like  a  young 
mother  over  her  firstborn. 

As  we  turned  to  walk  homeward  we  met 
a  boy  holding  a  young  starling  in  his  hand. 
Its  feeble,  strident  cries,  its  funny  little  beak 
closing  upon  his  finger  under  the  impression 
it  was  a  gigantic  worm,  delighted  him  almost 
as  much  as  the  lambkin. 

"  A  day  of  days  !  "  was  his  expressive 
commentary,  as  tired  and  hungry  we  reached 
home  and  sat  down  to  dinner,  with  the  deep 
boom  of  the  sea  clearly  audible  through  the 
open  window. 

Marston  had  a  subtle  sympathy  with 
nature  which  amounted  almost  to  a  new 
sense.  A  cloud  would  rise  upon  the  horizon, 
and  he  would  be  the  first  to  portend  some 
change  in  the  weather  ;  it  was  as  if  his 
sightless  eyes  yet  conveyed  some  message  to 
his  mind,  or  as  if  his  ears  heard  an  ominous 
murmur  of  far-off  wind  and  rain  inaudible 
to  senses  less  acute.  Sunset,  a  solemn 
moon-rise,  the  company  of  cloud-drifts 
passing  westward  and  glowing  with  delicate 
and  gorgeous  tones  and  hues,  to  these  he 
was  never  insensitive,  even  if  no  friend 
referred  to  them  ;    in  some  occult  fashion 

138 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

he  seemed  to  be  aware  that  these  things  were 
making  earth  and  heaven  beautiful. 

And  because  to  him  the  sea  and  the  wind 
were  always  among  the  most  wonderful 
things  in  nature,  endlessly  suggestive,  end- 
lessly beautiful  to  eye  and  ear  and  spirit,  his 
love  for  them  never  grew  less.  But  in  the 
growing  sadness  of  his  last  years  one  of 
his  most  abiding  sorrows  was  the  loss,  in  great 
part,  of  the  old  passionate  love  and  yearning 
for  nature.  But  for  his  blindness  this  would 
not  have  been  so,  for  to  men  and  women  who 
have  anything  in  them  of  spiritual  life, 
nature  is  the  source  of  their  most  sacred 
comfort.  On  a  mountain -slope,  on  a  wide 
plain,  by  the  margin  of  the  sea,  the  keenest 
grief  becomes  rarefied  till  it  attains  to  a  higher 
and  nobler  plane  of  sorrow. 

Far  more  deeply  than  some  of  his  friends 
guessed  did  he  feel  this  passing  away  of  the 
old  worship.  It  was  a  genuine  sorrow  to  him, 
a  deep  and  cruel  disappointment.  "  It  is  as 
though  one  were  parting  with  one's  last 
hope — one's  sole  remaining  consolation,"  he 
once  remarked  to  me  bitterly.  In  the  sonnet 
called  Youth  and  Nature  he  has  given 
expression  to  this  sense  of  estrange- 
ment : 


139 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

Is  this  the  sky,  and  this  the  very  earth 

I  had  such  pleasure  in  when  I  was  young  ? 

And  can  this  be  the  identical  sea-song, 
Heard  once  within  the  storm-cloud's  awful  girth, 
When  a  great  storm  from  silence  burst  to  birth, 

And  winds  to  whom  it  seemed  I  did  belong 

Made  the  keen  blood  in  me  rim  swift  and  strong 
With  irresistible,  tempestuous  mirth  ? 
A  re  these  the  forests  loved  of  old  so  well, 

Where  on  May  nights  enchanted  music  was  ? 

Are  these  the  fields  of  soft,  delicious  grass, 
These  the  old  hills  with  secret  things  to  tell  ? 
O  my  dead  Youth,  was  this  inevitable. 

That  with  thy  passing.  Nature,  too,  should  pass  ? 

The  last -quoted  sonnet  is  from  the  third 
of  Philip  Marston's  published  volumes  of 
poetry.  In  1883-84  this  book  was  issued 
by  Mr.  Elliot  Stock,  with  the  poetic  title 
Wind  Voices.  Its  success  was  immediate 
and  emphatic.  Messrs.  Roberts  Bros.,  of 
Boston,  speedily  disposed  of  every  copy 
of  the  American  edition,  and  the  London 
publisher  sold  the  last  few  score  at  a  consider- 
able premium.  The  book  is  consequently 
almost  as  difficult  to  obtain  as  Song  Tide, 
for  it  was  not  stereotyped. 

In  addition  to  a  further  instalment  of  his 
exquisite  flower-lyrics,  grouped  under  the 
title  Garden  Secrets,  there  are  touching 
poems  in  memory  of  Oliver  Madox  Brown, 
Arthur    O'Shaughnessy.    James    Thomson, 

140 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

and  Rossetti,  and  several  sonnets  addressed 
to  C.  N.  M.  (his  sister  Ciceley.)  Among  the 
more  ambitious  poems  are  Caedmon,  where 
the  Saxon  poet  relates  before  the  Abbess 
Hilda  that  famous  dream  which  resulted 
in  the  Song  of  Creation  ;  Caught  in  the  Nets, 
a  merman  story  founded  on  a  passage  in  Sir 
Richard  Baker's  Chronicle,  wherein  is  des- 
cribed the  capture  of  a  strange,  half -human 
creature  of  the  deep,  on  the  Suffolk  coast 
in  the  twelfth  century,  and  its  ultimate 
escape  to  the  "  dear  waves  "  and  "  some 
sea -girl's  damp  and  salt  caresses  "  ;  The 
Ballad  oj  the  Monk  Julius,  based  on  the 
familiar  legend  of  the  demon-tempted  monk  ; 
the  Ballad  oj  Brave  Women,  a  record  of  two 
heroic  Swansea  fishermen's  wives,  which, 
however,  is  too  markedly  Rossettian  ;  and 
Nightshade,  founded  on  the  conclusion  of 
Oliver  Madox  Brown's  Dwale  Bluth,  as 
designed  though  not  completed  by  its 
author. 

His  health  henceforth  steadily  declined. 
His  power  of  concentration  lessened,  and  all 
labour  became  a  weariness  to  him.  "It  is 
impossible  I  can  live  long,"  he  was  wont  to 
exclaim,  impatiently — "  how  unutterably 
thankful  I  would  be  for  the  end,  if  only — if 
only — I  knew  what  lay  beyond  !  " 

141 


Philip  Bourke  Marston 

Until  the  summer  of  1886,  however,  he 
still  wrote  industriously,  though  rarely  in 
verse.  In  August  he  and  his  father  were 
at  Brighton  for  rest  and  change  of  air. 
Every  autumn  for  some  years  past,  the 
two  solitary  men,  father  and  son,  went 
away  somewhere  together ;  neither  was 
wont  to  tire  of  the  other's  companionship, 
for  the  friendship  between  them  was  almost 
as  brotherly  and  amicable  as  paternal  and 
filial.  One  hot  day,  while  bareheaded  in  the 
glare  of  the  sun,  Philip  was  prostrated  by 
a  heat  stroke,  which  was  followed  by  serious 
illness  of  an  epileptic  nature.  Mind  and 
body  suffered  from  the  strain,  and  the 
derangement  foretold  death. 

Throughout  the  winter  his  letters  were 
full  of  foreboding  and  weariness.  "  You 
will  miss  me,  perhaps,  when  I  am  gone,  but 
you  must  not  mourn  for  me.  I  think  few 
lives  have  been  so  deeply  sad  as  mine,  though 
I  do  not  forget  those  who  have  blessed  it." 
This  was  the  keynote  of  each  infinitely  sad 
letter. 

Serious  illness  and  months  of  tardy 
convalescence  prevented  my  seeing  anything 
of  Philip  Marston  from  the  spring  of  1886 
until  December,  On  Christmas  forenoon  I 
went  to  see  and  spend  an  hour  or  so  with  him. 

142 


Philip  Bourkc  Marston 

He  was  in  bed,  and  I  found  the  alteration  in 
him  only  too  evident. 

On  the  last  day  of  January  paralysis  set  in. 
Until  his  death  fourteen  days  later  he  lay 
speechless,  as  well  as  sightless.  His  efforts 
to  make  himself  understood  were  at  times 
most  harrowing.  Certain  desires  he  managed 
to  convey,  but  latterly  his  will-power  was 
insufficient  even  for  the  tremulous  raising 
of  his  poor  wasted  hand  in  sign  of  acquies- 
cence or  negation.  To  another  friend  and 
myself  I  know  that  he  consciously  said 
farewell  :  blind  though  he  was  he  saw  the 
shadow  of  death  coming  very  near. 

Looking  at  his  serene  face  on  the  day 
ere  the  coffin-lid  enclosed  it,  where  some- 
thing lovelier  than  mortal  sleep  subtly  dwelt, 
there  was  one  at  least  of  his  friends  who 
forgot  all  sorrow  in  a  great  gladness  for  the 
blind  poet — now  no  longer  blind,  if  he 
be  not  overwhelmed  in  a  sleep  beyond  our 
ken.  At  such  a  moment  the  infinite  satis- 
faction of  Death  seems  bountiful  largess  for 
the  unrestful  turmoil  of  a  few  "  dark, 
disastrous  years." 

1888. 


143 


SIR  EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 

Possibly,  even  now,  after  more  than  forty 
years  of  continuous  toil  of  spirit  and  labour 
of  hand  in  that  quest  which  is  the  highest 
quest  of  man — the  quest  of  beauty — 
Edward  Burne- Jones  must  await  till  a 
much  later  day,  an  adequate  judgment  of 
his  great  achievement,  and  of  his,  it  may  well 
be  incalculable,  influence. 

The  man  is  so  lately  gone  from  us,  with  so 
tragical  suddenness,  while  he  was  yet  at 
work  and  with  mind  set  upon  unaccom- 
plished dreams,  that  though  we  may  be 
famihar  with  every  great  or  significant 
thing  he  has  done,  from  his  first  tempera 
experiment,  the  Merlin  and  Nimue  of  1858, 
to  the  Dream  of  Launcelot  at  the  Door  of  the 
Chapel  of  the  San  Grael,  of  1896,  we  may  be 
unable  to  realise,  if  not  what  was  so  obvious, 
the  nobility  of  the  man,  at  least  the  great- 
ness of  his  achievement.  There  is  a 
spiritual  revelation  that  is  unique — the 
revelation  of  a  man  in  the  strange  auroral 
light  which  pertains  to  the  first  hours  of 

144 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

death.  In  that  brief  season  of  insight  we 
discern  the  reaUty  disengaged  from  the 
accident,  the  perdurable  from  the  perish- 
able. Of  all  men  I  have  known  I  can 
think  of  none  who,  in  that  unique  hour, 
stood  forth  so  like  in  the  immortal  part  to 
that  which  had  been  the  mortal.  But  one 
cannot  distinguish,  cannot  in  a  moment 
appreciate  the  work,  thus.  Time  is  needed  ; 
mental  perspective,  spiritual  vista.  I  recall 
some  words  written  by  Burne-Jones  himself, 
in  the  year  when  he  left  Oxford  to  devote 
himself  to  the  one  life,  though  until  then 
unforeseen,  to  which  he  felt  impelled  : 
"  Some  interval  of  time  must  always  pass 
before  we  can  take  in  all  the  magnitude  of  a 
man,  or  cycle,  or  event,  just  as  interspace  is 
needed  by  the  eye  before  it  can  see  pro- 
portion in  visible  objects  ;  so  that  we  never 
recognise  in  the  slowly  heaving  sides  of  a 
great  mountain,  as  we  walk  over  it,  what 
seemed  in  the  distance  so  abrupt,  terrible, 
and  majestic." 

In  time  we  shall  better  be  able  to  dis- 
tinguish between  that  in  his  work  which 
is  on  the  hither  side  of  genius  and  that 
which  is  "  owre  the  hills  and  far  away." 
But  of  the  man,  as  the  personal  tradition 
wanes,  how  little  shall  be  left  of  the  memory'' 

HI  145  K 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

of  that  sweet  winsomeness,  that  ready 
fellowship,  that  nimble  sympathy,  that 
entire  and  admirable  lovableness ;  in  a 
word,  how  Httle  shall  be  left  wherewith  to 
create  a  semblance,  to  fashion  a  living 
portrait,  of  one  whose  achievement  has 
been  so  high,  so  distinctive,  and,  in  its 
influence,  so  potent. 

To  others  better  qualified  I  must  leave  the 
task  of  the  Hmner.  Some  notes  I  have 
given  elsewhere,  hints  and  memoranda  for 
some  portraitist  of  more  knowledge  as  well 
as  skill.  Therefore,  here,  I  must  content 
myself  with  this,  that  the  man  himself  was 
so  great,  so  lovable,  so  admirable,  that 
there  have  been  moments  since  his  death 
when  many  who  knew  him  must  have  re- 
garded the  long  and  splendid  achievement 
of  his  genius  as  merely  the  beautiful  accident 
in  the  life  of  a  man  of  lovely  and  noble 
nature.  But,  of  course,  there  is  the  truer 
vision  which  cannot  see  the  one  apart  from 
the  other ;  which  discerns  in  the  man 
everything  of  nobility  and  beauty  that  is  in 
the  work  ;  and  in  the  work  perceives  every- 
where the  expression  of  those  spiritual  ideas 
which  were  the  man. 

What  others  better  quaHfied  may  do  in 
biography,  others  better  qualified  may  do 

146 


sir  Edward  Biirne-Jones 

in  criticism.  Frankly,  it  is  a  matter  of  in- 
difference to  me,  at  this  moment,  when  one  is 
so  much  the  more  concerned  with  a  great  loss 
than  with  a  weighing  of  merits  and  demerits, 
whether  he  be  accounted  less  great  than  the 
great,  or  below  these  again,  or  be  but  a 
sinner  of  art  barely  redeemed  by  dignity  and 
individuahty.  That  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones  was  not  impeccable  ;  that  his  noble 
manner  was  sometimes,  and  particularly  of 
late,  clouded  by  a  less  noble  mannerism  ; 
that  his  drawing  was  sometimes  in  accord 
with  an  arbitrary  conception  of  proportion 
rather  than  with  the  exigent  right  or  wrong 
of  actuahty  ;  that  sometimes  the  achieve- 
ment lags  overmuch  behind  the  creative 
emotion  ;  in  a  word,  that  he  had  with  his 
high  and  rare  quahties  the  defects  of  these 
qualities,  is,  I  take  it,  sufficiently  self- 
evident.  Nor  has  the  time  come,  even  for 
those  with  some  claim  to  speak  with 
authority,  to  say  what  place  he  is  to  take; 
or  where  he  is  to  be  uplifted,  or  where  set 
down.  Again,  it  is  not  as  if  the  wonder  and 
beauty  of  his  work  were  a  new  thing  to  us 
in  the  sense  of  a  recent  revelation.  For 
many  years  it  has  been  discussed  from  every 
possible  standpoint ;  it  has  known  every 
vicissitude  of  praise  and  dispraise  ;    it  has 

147 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

been  adjudged,  by  the  noble  and  the  ignoble  ; 
it  has  filled  imaginative  minds  with  beauty 
and  unimaginative  minds  with  bewilder- 
ment, and  smaU  minds  with  mocking 
laughter  ;  it  has  drawn  from  the  myriad 
commonplace  of  Punch  the  "  criticism," 
"  Yes,  burn  Jones  "  ;  it  is  exercising  at  this 
moment  a  permanent  and  incalculable  effect 
in  the  development  of  a  nobler  ideal  of  the 
beautiful  in  art,  and  to  this  day  it  is  derided 
when  not  abhorred  of  those  who  bow  down 
before  the  Academical  Scarlet  Woman  who 
sitteth  at  BurHngton  House.  We  are  all, 
perhaps,  a  little  weary  of  the  futile  and  the 
obvious  ;  and  in  art  is  there  anything  more 
obvious  than  that  many  are  called,  few 
chosen ;  anything  more  futile  than  to 
persuade  the  many  against  its  own  in- 
difference ? 

The  day  will  come  when  a  fit  judgment 
can  be  made  ;  and,  meanwhile,  many  acute 
and  suggestive  appreciations  will  help  to 
that  end.  But  just  as  here  I  relinquish 
biographical  detail  and  all  personal  re- 
miniscence save  that  which  has  direct  in- 
terpretative bearing,  so  I  forbear  from 
taking  the  achievement  of  Burne-Jones 
seriatim,  and,  in  so  doing,  from  attempting 
a  critical  estimate  of  where  he  has  succeeded 

148 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

and  where  apparently  failed.  As  for  a 
descriptive  catalogue  of  his  pictures,  that 
would  not  only  be  mere  iteration  of  what 
is  commonly  known,  but  would  in  every 
sense  be  superfluous.  Readers  who  wish 
details  of  this  kind  will  find  them  in  the 
excellent  biography  of  the  great  artist,  by 
Mr.  Malcolm  Bell,  or  in  the  more  con- 
centrated, but  not  less  excellent  monograph 
by  Mrs.  Ady. 

All  I  wish  to  do  here  is  to  interpret,  as 
best  I  can,  what  was  essential  and  inevitable 
in  the  genius  of  Edward  Burne-Jones. 

Already  one  or  two  able  critics  have 
expressed  clearly  certain  essential  points, 
beyond  the  sea-Hne  of  the  endless  tidal 
ebb  and  flow  of  public  opinion.  Thus,  one 
defines  him  with  true  apprehension  as  the 
Painter  of  OtherworldHness.  Recalling 
Swift's  affirmation  that  "  whoever  could 
make  two  ears  of  corn,  or  two  blades  of 
grass,  to  grow  upon  a  spot  of  ground  where 
only  one  grew  before,  would  deserve  better 
of  mankind,  and  do  more  essential  service 
to  his  country,  than  the  whole  race  of 
politicians  put  together,"  he  adds,  "  that 
what  there  is  of  truth  in  this  famous  saying 
may  be  appHed  to  the  things  of  the  spirit, 
no  less  than  to  those  of  the  earth  ;  and  that 

149 


Sir  Edward  Biirne-Jones 

whoever  adds  a  new  window  into  the  world 
of  the  imagination,  and  puts  before  us  new 
hghts  of  wonder  and  beauty,  does  an 
essential  service  to  his  country."  Another 
and  exceptionally  subtle  and  acute  critic 
has,  in  his  eloquent  obituary  of  the  great 
painter,  one  phrase  which  adequately  pre- 
sents the  best  standpoint  for  the  moment : 
"  How  all  this  will  appear  to  new  genera- 
tions it  is  not  we  who  can  say,  though  two 
periods  of  unjust  depreciation  may  be 
thought  to  have  paid  its  debt  to  mortality. 
For  each  band  of  youth  there  is  some 
wizard  who  opens  the  gates  of  the  dream- 
world, and  youth  itself,  its  desires,  the 
spirit's  fashion  of  the  moment  conspire  to 
make  the  vision  glorious.  After,  when  the 
mood  changes  and  another  spell  is  cast, 
these  conspiring  forces  fall  away,  the  art  is 
judged,  and  the  fashion  is  judged." 

Well,  the  conspiring  forces  have  not  yet 
fallen  away,  and  the  dreamer  has  only  now 
passed  from  the  lesser  to  the  greater  dream. 

In  that  early  essay  of  his  in  literature,  of 
which  so  much  has  been  said  since  his 
death,  there  occur  words  so  apposite  that  I 
may  well  give  them  here  :  "  Behold  we 
know  nothing  of  him  henceforth  for  ever  ; 
that  hour  revealed  him  in  silence  ;    hence- 

150 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

forward  he  is  locked  up  and  sealed  against 
a  time  to  come." 

Yet,  just  because  there  is  often  something 
of  revelation  in  even  the  most  meagre 
personal  detail,  I  should  like  to  say  a  word 
of  Edward  Burne-Jones  as  last  I  saw  him, 
a  few  weeks  before  that  weakening  seizure 
of  influenza  which  preceded,  and  no  doubt 
immediately  induced,  his  death. 

It  seems  only  a  few  weeks  ago  that  I  was 
walking  with  him  through  a  crowded 
western  thoroughfare.  We  met  in  Trafalgar 
Square,  and  before  we  spoke  I  noticed  how 
much  older  he  looked  than  when  I  had  seen 
him  a  few  months  before  ;  how  worn  ;  and 
apparently  how  more  than  ever  given  over 
to  that  interior  life  whose  spiritual  reflection 
revealed  itself  in  the  visionary  eyes.  These 
strange  luminous  eyes  always  impressed 
people  who  met  the  great  painter  for  the 
first  time  ;  and  even  old  acquaintances, 
coming  suddenly  upon  him  unawares,  when 
the  reality  of  dreams  was  much  more  to  him 
than  outward  actuality,  could  not  fail  to 
realise  anew  how  much  of  the  man  was  in 
that  curiously  lit  gaze,  as  though  entranced 
spiritual  reverie  were  shining  there.  Of  late 
years,  when  walking  alone,  he  was  often 
seen  with  moving  hps,  as  though  in  silent 

151 


Sir  Edward  Btirne-Jones 

speech  or  recalling  some  of  those  lines  of  a 
remote  beauty,  ancient  or  modem,  in  which 
he  took  so  great  a  delight  ;  but  generally 
he  was  descried  walking  swiftly,  with  head 
shghtly  thrown  forward,  and  with  intent, 
dreaming  eyes. 

On  this  day  when  I  saw  him  for  the  last 
time  I  noticed  that  he  was  murmuring  to 
himself  as  he  came  along.  Something  in  his 
rapt  expression  persuaded  me  to  avoid  him, 
but  just  as  he  passed  he  turned  and  held  out 
a  hand  with  winsome  cordiality. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  he  added,  after  we  had 
walked  a  short  way,  "  of  a  large  picture  I 
have  long  had  in  my  mind  to  paint ;  an 
Ave  Maria !  I  have  pondered  this  in  a 
hundred  ways  for  years  past  ;  but  ever 
since  dear  Morris  died  I  have  thought  of  it 
much  more,  for  we  had  talked  about  it  not 
long  before  his  death.  Still,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  get  at  it.  Something  brought 
it  into  my  mind  to-day,  and  what  I  was 
recalling  to  myself  when  we  met  was  a 
strange  little  poem  that  '  Topsy '  wrote 
when  we  were  both  undergraduates  at 
Oxford  more  than  forty  years  ago.*  You 
will  find  it  in  a  lovely  little  tale  that  has 

*   "  Topsy  "     was     a     favourite     nickname     of 
William  Morris  among  his  intimate  friends. 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

never  been  reprinted  since  it  was  published 
in  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge,'^  called  The 
Hollow  Land.     This  is  how  it  goes  : 

Queen  Mary's  crown  was  gold. 
King  Joseph's  crown  was  red, 
But  Jesus'  crown  ivas  diamond, 
That  lit  up  all  the  bed 

Mariae  Virginis. 

Ships  sail  through  the  Heaven, 
With  red  banners  dress' d. 
Carrying  the  planets  seven. 
To  see  the  white  breast 

Mariae  Virginis. 

Then,  abruptly,  and  with  a  petulance 
foreign  to  his  singularly  sweet  and  courteous 
disposition,  he  exclaimed  :  "  But  there,  you 
don't  expect  a  spent  horse  to  win  a  race. 
Let  us  say  no  more  about  my  work.  I  have 
done  what  I  could.  As  for  what  I  have 
told  you,  well,  we  all  love  to  live  among  our 
dreams."  When  I  rallied  him  upon  this 
(very  characteristic)  mood  of  depression, 
he  insisted  that  he  knew  he  had  but  a 
brief  time  in  which  to  work.  "  Do  you 
remember,"  he  added  abruptly,  "  what 
Rossetti  used  to  say  about  the  fatal  month 
of  May  ?  "      And  when  I  said  I  did,  but 

*  The     (now     exceedingly     rare)     Oxford     and 
Cambridge  Magazine  for  1856. 

153 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

reminded  him  that  after  all  Rossetti  died  in 
April,  he  exclaimed — "  A  few  days  one  way 
or  another  means  little." 

A  day  or  two  before  his  death  I  was 
looking  at  some  reproductions  of  drawings 
of  his,  and,  recalhng  what  Sir  Edward  had 
said,  was  glad  to  think  that  the  fatal  month 
of  May,  so  dreaded  by  the  great  painter,  was 
safely  over  ;  and,  as  it  chanced,  I  was  near 
the  Grange,  in  North  End  Road,  on  June  i6, 
and  heard  from  a  friend,  met  in  that  quiet 
thoroughfare,  that  Burne- Jones  was  hard 
at  work,  and  would  be  painting  as  long  as 
the  light  lasted.  At  dawn,  on  the  17th,  he 
became  suddenly  ill,  and  shortly  after 
succumbed  to  that  most  fugitive  and 
treacherous  of  organic  troubles,  angina 
pectoris.  He  had,  thus,  the  sudden  death 
for  which  he  had  always  hoped,  and  fulfilled 
another  ideal,  in  that  he  was  at  work  to  the 
end.  If  he  had  lived  till  August  28  he  would 
have  completed  his  sixty-fifth  year. 

The  first  impression,  and  it  is  a  durable 
one,  given  by  any  adequate  consideration  of 
the  achievement  in  art  of  Edward  Burne- 
Jones,  is  that  of  a  singular  continuity.  A 
continuity  of  inspiration ;  a  singular  con- 
tinuity in  aim  and  effort ;    and,   with   all 

154 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

allowance  for  development  from  immaturity 
to  maturity,  as,  later,  for  the  artifice  of  a 
mannerism  distinct  from  that  shaping  art 
which  was  an  inevitable  development  from 
within,  a  singular  continuity  in  the  work 
itself.  No  one  can  look  at  the  earliest 
drawings  of  Burne- Jones  and  not  discern 
in  them  the  shaping  mind  and  fulfilling 
hand  of  the  artist  who,  it  may  well  be,  has 
bequeathed  to  us  in  the  last  quarter  of  a 
century  a  greater  heritage  of  beauty  than 
any  other  English  painter  has  done.  There 
is  no  aesthetic,  only  a  technical,  difference 
between  the  Ammnciation  of  i860  and  the 
Star  of  Bethlehem  of  1890  ;  the  first  oil- 
picture,  The  Prioress's  Tale  (1858),  may  be 
laid  by  the  side  of  The  Heart  of  the  Rose  or 
Love  among  the  Ruins,  painted  in  the  nine- 
ties ;  and  in  the  lovely  Sponsa  di  Libano,  of 
a  year  or  two  ago,  is  the  same  revealing 
touch  as  in  the  youthful  pen-drawing  of 
Alice  la  Belle  Pelerine,  or  that  strange  water- 
colour,  Sidonia  Von  Bork,  with  its  hint  of 
fantastic  mediaeval  beauty. 

It  is  rare  that  an  artist  enters  at  once  upon 
his  inheritance,  or,  having  entered  into 
possession,  that  he  is  able  to  see  clearly  the 
aim  and  end  in  the  first  tentatives  of  ado- 
lescence.    But,  almost  from  the  day  when,  in 

155 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

eompany  with  his  fellow-undergraduate  at 
Oxford,  William  Morris,  his  artistic  self  was 
quickened  into  active  life  through  a  drawing 
by  a  then  little-known  artist,  in  a  then 
already  defunct  magazine,*  Edward  Burne- 
Jones  recognised  that,  for  him,  the  line  of 
imagination  lay  along  the  beautiful  and 
mysterious  borderland  of  actuality  and 
dreamland  :  that  actuality,  so  infinitely 
more  stronge  and  alluring,  because  irradiated 
by  the  remote  glow  and  rainbow-light  of  the 
land  of  the  imagination  ;  and  that  dream- 
land, so  much  the  less  an  exquisite  figment, 
so  much  the  more  a  genuine  revelation  of 
spiritual  reality,  because  habited  with  the 
familiar  white  clouds,  the  pastoral  meadows, 
the  winding  ways,  with  rock  and  tree, 
valley  and  upland,  and  with  men  mortal  as 
ourselves  and  women  no  more  divine  than 
their  kindred  of  Arden — because  habited 
with  those  happy  commonplace  things. 
From  the  outset  he  saw  life  symbolically. 
Thus  spiritual  ideas  took  on  a  new  pictorial 
raiment  ;  the  flowing  line  and  interwoven 
colour,  which  we  recognise  as  the  raiment 
woven  from  the  loom  of  his  individual 
imagination,  being  but  the  beautiful  accident 

*  Rossetti's  drawing,   The  Maids  of  Elfinmere, 
which  appeared  first  in  The  Germ,  1850. 

156 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

of  a  fresh  and  exquisite  apparition  of  spiritual 
truths.  To  all  of  us  to  whom  the  inter- 
pretations, the  revelations,  of  the  imagina- 
tion mean  so  infinitely  more  than  anything 
else  the  human  mind  can  reveal,  Bume- 
Jones  is  no  remote  dreamer,  but  only  a 
comrade  who  has  fared  further,  who  has 
seen  beyond  our  horizons,  whose  spiritual 
outlook  is  deeper  and  wider.  "  When  we 
think,"  he  wrote,  as  a  young  man,  in  that 
early  essay  already  alluded  to,  "  when  we 
think  upon  heroic  men,  conquerors,  prophets, 
poets,  painters,  musicians,  it  is  for  the  most 
part  in  the  light  of  difference,  .  .  .  seldom, 
if  ever,  in  the  light  of  unity."  It  is  because, 
in  the  truest  sense,  Bume-Jones  is  a  pro- 
found realist — only  his  realism  is  not  that 
aggregating  observation  of  the  detective 
intelligence,  but  the  perceiving  and  unifying 
vision  of  the  imagination — that  to  those  of 
us  who  are  in  any  sense  his  kindred,  however 
remote,  he  is  real  and  near  to  us  in  the  light, 
not  of  difference,  but  of  unity. 

In  this  essay,  now  again  alluded  to, 
immature  in  expression  as  it  is,  there  is 
ample  proof  that  the  man  is  revealed  in 
hints,  of  which  life-long  literary  work  would 
only  have  been  an  expansion.  It  was  thus 
with  his  painting.     His  intellectual  scrupu- 

157 


Sir  Edi&ard  Bwne-Jones 

lousness  is  disclosed  in  a  remark  such  as 
this :  "  Alas,  those  brilliant  formulas  in 
which  we  sometimes  fold  our  criticisms  and 
condemnations,  and  suffer  them  to  pass 
from  mouth  to  mouth  without  question  or 
gainsay,  how  are  they  not  the  cause  of 
infinite  injustice  to  others,  and  to  ourselves 
of  loss  irreparable."  His  intellectual  and 
artistic  singleheartedness  is  even  more 
conspicuously  unveiled  in — "  Our  work, 
whatever  it  be,  must  be  the  best  of  its  kind, 
the  noblest  we  can  offer."  The  Burne- Jones 
who  had  not  yet  begun  his  lifework,  wrote 
this  ;  and  over  the  tomb  of  the  great  painter 
who  has  just  passed  from  among  us,  the 
same  words  might  aptly  be  inscribed,  or  the 
same  in  effect  :  "  His  work,  whatever  it  was, 
was  the  best  of  its  kind,  the  noblest  he  had 
to  offer." 

The  formative  influences  in  the  youth  of 
this  great  painter  were  intellectually  so 
important  that  it  would  have  been  strange 
if  he  had  shown  no  ability  or  incHnation  for 
literary  expression.  The  subtle  voices  of 
The  Germ  were  still  the  alluring  echoes  from  a 
haunted  land.  The  exquisite  art  of  Tenny- 
son, the  strenuous  rhetoric  of  Carlyle,  the 
new  strange  beauty  of  the  genius  of  the  young 
Rossetti,  the  urgent  intensity  of  Browniing, 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

the  superb  prose  of  Ruskin— these  were  the 
flames  in  that  day  at  which  the  torches  of 
eager  youth  were  lit.  And  as  for  Edward 
Burne- Jones,  who  had  come  to  Exeter 
College  with  an  imagination  already 
quickened  with  Hellenic  mythology  and 
Pagan  dreams  of  beauty,  and  had  there  at 
once  found  an  ideal  (as  well,  as  it  proved,  a 
lifelong)  friend  in  a  young  Oxonian,  also 
newly  arrived  at  the  University,  also  a 
Welshman,  and  also  come  with  the  intention 
ultimately  to  enter  the  church — for  Burne- 
Jones  it  could  hardly  have  been  possible 
that  he  should  not  have  developed  mentally 
with  eager  swiftness.  Through  WiUiam 
Morris  he  tasted  of  the  sweet  hydromel  of 
Chaucer,  of  the  wild  honey  of  Arthurian 
romance.  In  art,  a  prophet,  though  dis- 
guised as  an  "  Oxford  Graduate,"  had 
preached  a  new  gospel,  and  with  the  speech 
of  those  who  dwell  in  high  places.  In  its 
practice,  the  painter  who  drew  the  wistful 
faces  of  the  Maids  of  Elfinmere,  and  the  poet 
who  had  written  The  Blessed  Damozel,  was 
already  a  leader,  young,  and,  in  a  sense,  un- 
known as  he  was.  Holman  Hunt,  Millais, 
and  other  young  men  were  conveying  to 
their  elders  and  preceptors  the  bitter  lesson 
that  these  preceptors  and  elders  knew  very 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

little  that  was  worth  knowing.  In  a  word, 
the  spirit  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  revolt 
was  in  the  air,  as  it  had  been  earlier  in 
the  century.  Only,  instead  of  the  insin- 
cerities of  Byron  and  the  futilities  of  in- 
surgents in  art  such  as  Haydon  the  calling 
voices  were  those  of  Carlyle  and  Ruskin  ; 
while  in  the  arts  of  silent  beauty,  Turner  had 
just  ceased  from  his  revelations  of  natural 
splendour,  and  Rossetti  and  Millais  and 
Holman  Hunt  had  begun  that  union  of 
intense  spiritual  emotion  with  emotional 
intensity  in  expression — which,  as  much  in 
whim  as  in  earnest,  dubbed  pre-Raphaeli- 
tism — was  already  mistrusted  and  disparaged 
by  all  who  spoke  glibly  of  art  and  had  but 
the  dimmest  idea  of  what  the  word  means, 
and  none  at  all  of  the  aim,  spirit,  and 
achievement  of  those  mediaeval  dreamers  in 
line  and  colour  who  preceded  the  master- 
craftsman  of  Urbino. 

And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Burne- Jones  did 
at  one  time  think  of  devoting  himself  to 
literature.  Rossetti,  who  was  ever  ready 
with  generous  encouragement,  admitted  he 
might  succeed  ;  though,  as  Burne- Jones 
told  me  himself,  the  poet-painter  doubted 
if  his  pupil  could  attain  to  the  same  detach- 
ment, with  the  pen,  instead  of  the  brush  as 

i6o 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

his  medium — "  that  detachment  which  is  so 
imperative  for  the  creative  mind  in  any 
art,  as  I've  often  heard  him  say."  But 
Morris,  young  as  he  was,  proved  a  wiser 
counsellor.  "  You  would  always  be  losing 
yourself  in  the  idea,"  he  would  say,  "  as 
long  as  you  wrote  in  prose  ;  and  as  for 
verse,  you  haven't  got  the  true  faculty,  and, 
after  all,  I  would  far  rather  see  you  a  good 
parson  than  a  second-rate  poet." 

It  is  generally  averred,  and  I  think  both 
Sir  Edward's  biographers,  Mr.  Malcolm  Bell 
and  Mrs.  Ady,  confirm  the  statement,  that 
he  published  only  one  paper  in  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  Magazine.  I  am  not  sure  if 
Mr.  Fulford  (who  edited  it)  is  still  li\dng,  or 
if  any  one  can  settle  the  point  definitely  ; 
but  I  have  always  understood  that  both 
the  Thackeray  essays  in  that  one-year 
magazine — that  in  the  January  and  that  in 
the  June  numbers— were  by  Burne- Jones  ; 
indeed,  that  they  were  one  rather  ill-con- 
structed essay  severed  into  two  sections  on 
account  of  length.  Internal  evidence,  too, 
certainly  seems  to  indicate  this.  The  style 
is  the  same,  in  its  demerits  as  weU  as  its 
merits  ;  and  there  are  many  phrases  which 
are  not  only  in  conformity  with  others  of  a 
kindred   nature   in   the   earlier   paper,   but 

III  i6i  L 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

might  readily  have  fallen  from  Burne- 
Jones'  lips  at  any  time  of  his  life.  Here, 
for  example,  are  a  few  representative,  and, 
as  I  believe,  idiosyncratic  sentences.  "  If 
nobody  ever  went  beyond  the  tether  of  a 
rule,  we  should  all  stand  still,  and  the  state 
of  the  world  be  stereotyped  in  imperfec- 
tion." .  .  .  .  "  Why  should  we  not  all  have 
as  much,  instead  of  as  little,  happiness  as 
we  may."  .  .  .  .  "  Ore  implies  dross  ;  re- 
fining, refuse  ;  labour,  some  degree  of  waste  ; 
but  so  long  as  there  is  a  healthy  prepon- 
derance of  gold,  refinement,  and  effort  after 
excellence,  so  long  may  we  be  well  satisfied 
that  we  are  not  at  a  standstill."  .  .  . 
"  Men  are  not  made  for  rules,  but  rules  for 
men."  ..."  What  is  Principle  ?  Principle 
to  me  is  feeling  regulated  ;  to  you,  feehng 
suppressed."  The  same  crudities  occur, 
too,  as  in  the  passage  about  respectability, 
beginning,  "  All  is  not  gold  that  glitters  ; 
all  is  not  respectable  that  bears  the  name, 
&c.  &c.  "  ;  which  has  its  counterpart  in  the 
Newcomes  essay  in  "Of  all  marvels  in 
this  same  universe  that  pass  our  poor 
philosophy  I  doubt  not  this  of  marriage  is 
the  very  strangest,  seeing  to  what  end  it  has 

arrived  at  last,  and  from  what  beginning " 

or  in  this  strangely  crude  intellectual  judg- 

162 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

ment,  "  I  protest  that  ia  the  Wavcrley 
Novels  and  in  the  whole  historical  romance 
school  which  followed  them,  one  looks  in 
vain  for  anything  to  sympathise  with." 

But,  further  than  this,  it  is  quite  possible 
that  more  than  the  Thackeray  articles  in 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  due  to  Burne- 
Jones.  I  do  not  remember  ever  having 
asked  the  painter  himself,  though  I  have  a 
vague  recollection  of  his  having  alluded,  on 
one  occasion,  to  his  having  "  once  had  a 
spurt  at  literary  work  which  kept  me  going 
for  some  months."  But  I  do  recall  a  remark 
of  WilUam  Morris's  one  day  at  Ford  Madox 
Brown's  studio,  in  reply  either  to  M.  Destree, 
or  some  other  foreign  art  writer  who  chanced 
to  be  there,  and  had  been  inquiring  as  to  the 
authorship  of  certain  contributions  to  The 
Germ  and  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  that 
"  Jones  wrote  two  or  three  review  articles  " 
for  the  latter.  Again,  and  more  definitively, 
I  took  up  one  day,  at  Walter  Pater's  rooms 
in  Brasenose,  a  copy  of  the  Oxford  and 
Cambridge,  which  had  names  pencilled  after 
most  or  all  of  the  contributions.  It  was 
not  Pater's  own  copy,  but  one  lent  him  by  a 
friend,  and  so  he  could  not  lend  it  to  me  ; 
but,  at  his  suggestion,  I  copied  the  pencilled 
indications,  and  afterwards  transferred  them 

163 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

to  my  own  incomplete  set  of  the  magazine. 
Of  course  there  might  well  have  been  no 
authenticity  in  these  suggested  authorships, 
for  at  that  time  (early  in  the  eighties)  there 
was  much  discussion  and  speculation  in 
Oxford  concerning  everything  to  do  with 
Rossetti,  and  indirectly  with  those  associated 
with  him,  and,  as  an  outcome,  a  good  deal  of 
surmise  about  the  Ox  and  Cam,  as  it  was 
called  for  short.  Moreover,  one  at  least  of 
the  pencilHngs  was  wrong,  for  while  the 
lovely  story  of  Gertha's  Lovers  was  rightly 
attributed  to  William  Morris,  his  other 
romance.  The  Hollow  Land,  was  attributed 
to  "  Rossetti,  who  also  wrote  Hand  and 
Soul  in  The  Germ." 

If  authentic,  Burne- Jones  would  thus  also 
be  the  author  of  the  long  and  interesting 
article  on  Ruskin,  opposite  to  the  publica- 
tion of  the  third  volume  of  Modern  Painters  ; 
and  of  that  On  Two  Pictures,  Ford  Madox 
Brown's  The  Last  of  England,  and  Rossetti 's 
Dante  and  the  Dead  Beatrice  (the  early 
water-colour,  not  to  be  confused  with  the 
great  oil-picture  now  in  the  Walker  Art 
Gallery  in  Liverpool).  It  is  difficult,  indeed, 
not  to  credit  the  second  paper  at  least  to 
Burne-Jones  ;  for  the  youth  in  his  twenties 
spoke  with  the  same  spiritual  accent  and 

164 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jofies 

with  much  the  same  verbal  phrasing  as  the 
man  in  his  sixties.  Who  does  not  recognise 
Burne-Jones,  the  man,  in  this  (written  of 
one  of  his  idols) — "  you  will  not  suffer  this 
man,  being  such,  and  much  more  than  I  can 
express,  to  go  on  his  way,  witnessed  against 
by  lying  spirits,  obscured  for  you,  and 
darkened  by  critics,  whose  pitiful  revenge 
would  sacrifice  truth,  and  conscience,  and 
fair  name,  and  anything  and  everything,  to 
wreck  its  Httle  monthly  vengeance."  Yet, 
lest  there  should  be  any  misapprehension  as 
to  the  bitterness  in  this  sentence,  whether 
authentic  or  merely  characteristic,  it  should 
be  added  that  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 
would  never  have  spoken  thus  in  relation 
to  himself,  to  his  own  work.  In  the  defence 
of  others,  above  all  of  Ruskin,  of  Rossetti, 
of  Morris,  of  Mr.  Swinburne,  he  was  ever 
swift  in  indignation  against  the  mahce  or 
impertinence  of  petty  minds,  against  "  the 
long-necked  geese  of  the  world  that  are  for 
ever  hissing  dispraise,  because  their  natures 
are  little." 

If^  as  I  take  it,  the  Ruskin  essay  is  also 

his,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  excerpt  two  or 

three,  in  any  case,  characteristic  sentences. 

.  .  .  "Is  the  sun  ever  so  conservative  of 

the  old  type  that  it  cannot  find  a  language 

165 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

for  itself  each  new  morning  ?  "  "  In  us 
also  there  are  mines  of  measureless  wealth, 
if  we  would  rise  up  and  work  them  :  '  for, 
rightly,  every  man  is  a  channel  through 
which  heaven  floweth.'  "  .  .  .  "  Whatever  is 
noble  in  art  and  nature,  may  not  be  com- 
prehended without  vigilance  :  what  part 
soever  of  it  commends  itself  at  once  to  the 
senses,  is  the  least  and  lowest.  ...  It  is 
quite  possible  to  hear  a  thing  every  day,  and 
not  to  know  it,  and  see  a  thing  every  day, 
and  not  observe  it."  .  .  .  "I  have  heard  [a 
rare  and  fine  work  of  the  imagination]  called 
vulgar — and  by  people  whose  combined 
minds  set  to  work  upon  a  thought,  could 
produce  nothing  from  it  that  would  not  be 
hopelessly  and  ineffably  vulgar.  Remember 
once  for  all,  the  noblest  things  in  the  hands 
of  the  ignoble  man  are  vulgar,  and  the 
meanest  things  in  the  hands  of  the  great 
man  are  noble.  ...  To  us  his  work  [that 
of  the  great  poet  or  painter]  is  ideal,  to 
himself,  real,  and  verily  existence." 

"To  us  his  work  is  ideal ;  to  himself, 
real,  verily  existent."  In  that  may  be 
heard  the  keynote.  From  youth  to  ful- 
filling manhood,  from  early  to  late  maturity, 
Edward  Bume- Jones  dwelled,  in  spirit  and 
imagination,  with  beautiful  dreams,  visions 

i66 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Joncs 

and  ideas,  which  to  us,  as  he  has  repre- 
sented them,  are  ideal,  but  were  to  him  the 
most  important  reality,  the  vraie  verite  of 
life. 

It  has  been  averred  that  his  achievement 
is  not  of  the  greatest,  because  that  from 
first  to  last,  it  is,  if  not  invariably  sad,  at 
least  characterised  by  a  beauty  that  is  ever 
strange,  remote,  and  melancholy.  But  that 
is  a  question  of  approach.  All  great  art, 
like  all  great  beauty,  however  revealed,  is  in 
a  sense  melancholy.  How  could  it  be  other- 
wise ?  We  discern  a  lovehness  beyond  indi- 
vidual attainment :  and  the  vision  must  leave 
one  either  insensate,  and  therefore  it  may 
well  be  blithely  indifferent,  or  intimately 
reached,  and  therefore  made  ahve  to  the 
pathos  of  divergence  between  the  beautiful 
and  harmonious  realities  of  the  imagination, 
and  the  less  beautiful  and  inharmonious,  or 
at  best  fragmentary,  realities  of  common  life. 
Before  great  beauty,  whether  wrought  by 
nature  or  by  man,  whether  of  man  himself 
or  of  that  which  is  beyond  and  about  him, 
we  are  either  as  children  spiritually 
awakened,  and  touched  to  tears,  by  strange 
and  exquisite  music  ;  or  as  old  people,  with 
all  the  once-alert  senses  in  disarray,  striving 
with  failing  memories  to  recall  the  Edens 

167 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

of  youth,  the  skies  that  to  remembrance 
were  so  cloudless,  or  lovely  with  sunhued 
aerial  palaces  and  drifting  spans  of  mar- 
vellous bows,  the  vivid  excitements  of  far- 
off  days,  the  hills  that  were  ever  dim  and 
blue  and  wonderful,  the  mysterious  pools  in 
mysterious  forests  where  beautiful  shy 
figures  of  youth  and  maid  were  wont  to 
meet,  whisperings  in  the  twilight — twilights 
long  passed  away  like  smoke  beneath  the 
love-star  in  the  west — and  the  beating  of 
hearts  exquisitely  tormented  with  fears 
only  less  lovely  than  rainbow  hopes. 

For  when  we  are  deeply  touched  by 
beauty,  we  are  always  baffled  by  some 
remembrance  that  evades  us.  Whether  we 
are  as  children  who  look  wonderingly  out- 
ward, or  as  the  aged  who  look  wonderingly 
backward,  the  same  wonder  confronts  us  : 
and,  with  the  wonder,  mystery,  the  mystery 
of  all  beauty ;  and,  with  the  mystery, 
melancholy,  the  melancholy  of  all  beauty. 
Yet  this  does  not  mean,  and  Sir  Edward 
Burne-Jones  himself  would  have  been  the 
last  to  affirm  it,  that  joyousness  is  not  to  be 
found,  is  not  to  be  sought,  in  great  and 
beautiful  art.  Joyousness  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  condition  of  amusement,  as  we 
understand    the    word,    a    happy    state    of 

i68 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

innocent  laughters,   not  even  only  a  con- 
scious delight  in  happy  things,  in  fortunate 
vicissitudes,  the  union  of  a  glad  mind  with 
a  glad  body  ;   but  is  also,  or  can  be,  a  grave 
ecstasy.     And  a  grave  ecstasy  is  the  ideal 
of  the  highest  art.     For,  after  all,  as  has 
been  truly  said  by  a  critic  of  rare  insight  : 
".  Timagination  humaine  est,  au  fond,  triste 
et    serieuse."     Moreover,    the    plastic    arts 
demand  not  only  supreme  reticence,  but  the 
utmost    austerity    in    selection.     And    how 
shall  a  man,  seeing  beyond  the  near  horizons, 
however  winsome  or  lovely  these  may  be, 
not  limn  that  which  he  discerns  beyond  ? 
Yet,  if  he  does,   he  is  warned  that  he  is 
remote,  that  he  is  sad,  that  his  visions  are 
too  lovely  to  be  dissociate  from  melancholy  : 
that    this    spiritual    outlook,    after    all,    is 
morbid  and  falsely  aristocratical,  and  that 
a  breath  of  the  homely  humour  of  a  Wilkie 
or  even  of  the  buffoonery  of  a  Jan  Steen 
would  be  welcome.     Those  who  argue  thus, 
and  they  prevail — as  concerning  literature 
they  swarm,   with  the  parrot-cry  that  no 
work  is   great  unless  it   contains   humour, 
which    generally    means    simply    making    a 
mock  at  something  ;    and  oblivious  of  the 
supreme  dramatic  art  of  Greece,   of  King 
Lear  and  Macbeth,   of  Milton — do  not   see 

169 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

that  these  things  are  not  necessarily  con- 
gruous. In  a  word,  they  do  not  see  that  it 
is  possible  to  write  of  the  stars  without  the 
alleviations  of  farce.  In  what  conceivable 
way  would  Burne-Jones  be  the  greater  if 
he  had  alternately,  or  even  occasionally, 
"  painted  life  as  we  see  it,  you  know  "  :  if 
he  had  chosen  the  Village  ale-house,  instead 
of  the  Brazen  Tower  of  Danae,  or  depicted  a 
Harlot's  Progress  instead  of  a  Chant  D' Amour, 
or  emulated  Morland  with  a  farmer  staring 
at  his  pigs  instead  of  representing  Dante 
stooping  in  rapt  ecstasy  before  his  Dead 
Beatrice,  or  painted  the  Derby  Day  instead 
of  the  Mirror  of  Venus  or  the  Quest  of  the 
Grael  ?  All  such  questionings  are  vanities, 
and  worse  than  vanities.  He  answered 
them  when  he  was  still  a  youth,  glad  and 
bewildered  with  a  new,  almost  hieratic, 
vision  of  beauty  :  "  our  work  must  not  only 
be  the  best  of  its  kind,  but  the  noblest  we 
have  to  offer."  He  could,  at  the  close,  as 
at  any  time  during  his  life,  have  given  an 
answer  similar  to  that  of  his  friend  (and 
enthusiastic  admirer)  Puvis  de  Chavannes, 
who,  when  addressed  once  by  an  admirer, 
thus  :  "  You  have  worked  a  Httle  like  the 
gods,  alone  and  apart,  but  of  all  artists 
you   have    been    most  fortunate,  you  have 

170 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

never  had  to  make  your  ideas  bend  one 
centimetre  "  : — replied,  smiling  gravely,  "  I 
don't  know  how  the  gods  work  ;  but  I 
could  never  have  given  anything  but  the 
best  that  was  in  me." 

As  for  the  complaint  of  remoteness,  of 
strangeness,  in  the  work  of  Burne-Jones,  it 
is  clear  that  here  again  the  question  is  one 
of  approach.  To  the  unimaginative,  all 
imaginative  work  must  inevitably  present  a 
closed  door.  They  may  knock,  but  none 
will  open.  If  they  stare  in  at  the  windows 
they  will  see  nothing  but  faded  tapestries, 
fantastic  furniture,  obsolete  weapons,  old 
silence,  the  dust  of  ancient  dreams.  All 
beautiful  art,  all  beauty,  is  remote  :  and  as 
much  when  it  is  wed  to  famihar  and  common- 
place things  as  when  it  relates  to  the  dreams 
and  visions  of  a  lovelier  life.  The  very 
essence  of  beauty  is  its  fugitiveness,  its  re- 
moteness, as  though  for  ever  unattainable ; 
so  that  the  hght  of  the  evening  star  in  a  sky 
of  green  and  purple,  the  face  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  the  Narcissus  of  the  unknown  Greek 
sculptor  forever  holding  silence  in  thrall,  the 
drop  of  dew  in  the  moonshine,  the  frail  bubble 
filled  with  rainbow  glory,  are  one  and  all  of  a 
beauty  inevitably  remote  and  fugitive,  the 
star  of  aeons  as  the  bubble  of  a  second. 

171 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

And  in  beauty,  is  it  not  now  more  than 
ever  recognised  that  strangeness  is  what 
fragrance  is  to  the  loveliness  of  a  flower,  or 
what  a  subtle  and  foreign  loveliness  is  to 
that  which  exhales  a  poignant  and  in- 
toxicating odour  ?  Walter  Pater  has 
spoken,  of  not  beauty  alone,  but  the  element 
of  strangeness  in  beauty,  as  the  inmost 
spirit  of  romantic  art  :  and  one  earlier  than 
he,  the  wise  and  deep-seeing  Bacon,  wrote  : 
"  There  is  no  Excellent  Beauty,  that  hath 
not  some  strangeness  in  the  proportion." 

I  think  of  Burne-Jones  as  having  from 
the  first  been  like  no  one  else.  It  is  true  that 
he  owed  much  to  others  ;  all  great  artists 
do  ;  and  that  in  particular  he  owed  much 
to  Rossetti.  But  he  never  borrowed  more 
than  a  formula.  In  his  very  earliest  draw- 
ings, Alice  La  Belle  Pelerine  or  Sidonia  Von 
Bork,  for  instance,  he  displayed  a  genuine 
and  unmistakable  originahty.  That  singular 
raptness  in  \ision  was  his,  which  may  be 
discerned  pre-eminently  in  certain  masters, 
widely  differing  in  kind  :  as  Lionardo, 
Diirer,  William  Blake.  It  is  characteristic 
of  him  that  one  of  his  favourite  passages  in 
modern  literature  was  that  fine  saying  of 
Newman's  :  "  Every  breath  of  air  and  ray 
of  light  and  heat,  every  beautiful  prospect 

172 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

is,  as  it  were,  the  skirts  of  their  garments, 
the  waving  of  the  robes  of  those  whose  faces 
see  God  in  heaven."  And  remembering  how 
sacred  a  thing  with  him  beauty  was,  and  not 
beauty  only  but  all  beautiful  things,  and  how 
for  him  even  the  commonplace  relinquished 
often  an  air  of  something  wonderful  and 
symboHcal,  I  am  reminded  of  that  fine 
saying  of  Pater's  :  "  All  the  acts  and 
accidents  of  daily  life  borrow  a  sacred  colour 
and  significance."  "  I  recognise  so  much  of 
myself  in  this  book,"  Burne- Jones  said  once, 
speaking  of  Marius  the  Epicurean,  "  that 
at  times  it  is  almost  too  personal  to  me  to 
read  without  disquietude."  Like  Marius, 
too,  he  knew  his  vocation  from  the  first, 
and,  discerning  it,  delivered  himself  to  the 
worthiest  that  was  in  him  to  fulfil,  both  in 
aim  and  power.  Like  Marius,  again,  he 
accepted  his  mission  with  grave  circum- 
spection. I  recall  one  summer  afternoon  in 
his  studio  at  The  Grange,  when  the  small 
company  of  three  was  joined  by  a  well- 
known  connoisseur,  whose  discretion  in 
social  courtesies  was  not  equal  to  his 
real,  if  commercially  ordered,  taste  in  art, 
Burne- Jones  was  painting  one  of  the  Perseus 
series,  and  had  been  showing  some  of  those 
marvellous  drawings  of  faces,  hmbs,  armour, 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

and  other  details,  than  which,  surely,  there 
have  been  none  more  masterly  since  Lion- 
ardo ;  and,  speaking  for  myself,  I  account 
Burne-Jones'  studies  as  the  most  perfect 
things  of  their  kind  accomplished  by  any 
Enghsh  artist,  and  consider  them  as  destined 
to  become  not  less  profoundly  admired  and 
sought  after  than  the  pencil  and  silver- 
point  drawings  of  Lionardo,  Mantegna, 
Raphael,  and  other  princes  of  art.  The 
visitor  to  whom  I  have  alluded  remarked, 
after  expressing  his  regret  that  some  years 
had  elapsed  since  he  had  met  the  painter 
whom  he  now  visited,  that  he  "  couldn't 
make  out  why  he  and  Rossetti  and  the  rest 
don't  consider  the  pubhc  a  little  more," 
adding,  half  apologetically,  "  Of  course,  I 
don't  mean  you  should  qualify  for  the 
Academy,  though,  after  all,  you  might  do 
worse  ;  but  there's  no  need  to  take  your  art 
as  though  you  were  Christian  martyrs  and 
couldn't  compromise  a  bit.  Look  at  Millais, 
for  instance  :  no  one  has  achieved  so  big 
a  success  as  he  has.  Yet  if  he  had  stuck  to 
his  early  principles  like  you  and  Rossetti 
and  Hunt  and  Morris  and  the  rest,  do  you 
think  for  a  moment  he  would  have  become 
the  successful  man  he  is  ?  " 

Sir  Edward  (then  Mr.)  turned  and  looked 

174 


Sir  Edward  Biirne-Jones 

at  the  speaker.  "  Perhaps  not,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  but  he  might  have  become  a 
greater  artist." 

To  this,  when  he  had  recovered  from  the 
effect  of  a  statement  involving  so  im- 
practicable a  view  of  art,  the  collector  repHed 
that  the  greatest  artist  was  he  who  achieved 
the  greatest  success. 

Burne- Jones,  like  all  men  of  an  imagina- 
tive nature,  disUked  argument  with  those 
whose  approach  to  any  subject  of  discussion 
can  never  be  along  an  avenue  of  the 
imagination.  But  on  this  occasion  his  im- 
patience with  a  view  so  foreign  to  his  own 
high  ideal  overbore  his  reticence.  I  cannot, 
of  course,  recall  his  exact  words,  and  he 
spoke  with  swift  and  eager  emphasis  for 
some  time  :  but  the  gist  of  what  he  said  is 
as  follows  : 

"  If  the  greatest  artist  is  the  man  who 
achieves  the  greatest  success — if  the  greatest 
because  of  this — that  author  is  the  greatest 
whose  books  have  the  largest  sale.  Take  this 
book,  for  instance  {Marius  the  Epicurean).  I 
don't  suppose  its  sale  will  exceed  a  couple 
of  thousand  copies.  But  Mr.  So-and-So's 
romance  of  the  impossible  in  Africa,  or  Miss 
So-and  So's  romance  of  the  intolerable 
nearer   home,   runs  to  tens  of    thousands. 

175 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

Therefore,  according  to  you,  the  shallow 
and  essentially  ephemeral  work  of  a  person 
with  inventive  mind  and  a  certain  literary 
faculty  is  greater  than  a  book  like  this,  the 
deeply  considered  and  exquisitely  wrought 
work  of  a  true  hterary  artist,  any  single 
page  of  which  is  literature.  But  the  matter 
is  really  not  worth  arguing.  There  are  too 
few  who  care  for  beauty  in  any  art.  The 
very  name  of  a  great  writer  like  Pater  is 
unknown  to  the  vast  Mudie  world.  Yet 
what  writer,  truly  moved  and  actuated  by 
the  quest  of  beauty,  but  would  rather  be 
Walter  Pater  than  (leaving  aside  Meredith 
and  Hardy)  all  the  popular  novelists  of  the 
day  concentrated  in  one  gigantic  '  success,' 
as  you  would  call  him.  What  poet  would 
not  rather  be  Keats,  and  read  by  a  few 
hundred,  than  be  Tupper  read  by  a  million — 
or  even  than  so  good  and  true  a  writer  in 
verse  as  Longfellow.  I  remember  Rossetti's 
saying  that  it  had  taken  centuries  to  prepare 
for  the  brain  whose  shaping  imagination 
wrought  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn.  A 
thousand  ingenious  Longfellows,  ten  thou- 
sand imperturbable  Tuppers,  come  with 
every  age  ;  but  there  is  only  one  Keats, 
And  so  it  is  in  art.  A  thousand  men 
exhibit  pictures  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and 

176 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

of  these  men,  perhaps,  not  one  is  a  painter. 
For  to  be  a  painter  is  not  merely  to  apply 
pigments  according  to  academical  formulas 
and  conventions  ;  is  not  even  to  illustrate 
past  or  present,  real  or  imaginary  events  or 
scenes  so  well  that  a  charming  object-lesson 
is  given — the  magic-lantern  corroborations 
(for  they  are  not  illusions)  of  talent ;  no,  is 
not  even  to  become  a  great  success,  and 
paint  anything  or  anybody  according  to  the 
law  of  supply  and  demand,  and  to  have  the 
proud  knowledge  of  being  at  the  top  of  the 
tree,  in  the  eyes  of  fifty  dealers  and  five 
hundred  thousand  picture-gallery  goers. 
To  be  a  painter  is  to  be  an  impassioned 
votary  of  truth,  whether  that  truth  be  a 
spiritual  idea  or  an  historical  circumstance, 
or  an  external  fact  :  and  to  be  so  wrought 
by  the  need  of  recreating  what  has  moved 
him,  that  whatever  else  he  has  to  do  in  life 
must  be  subservient  to  this  end  ;  and  to 
see  this  new  persuading  aspect  of  actual  or 
symboHcal  truth,  in  the  atmosphere  of 
colour  with  the  contours  and  horizons  of 
hne,  to  see  it  to  the  point  of  adequate  and 
convincing  reproduction  within  the  boun- 
daries of  hne  and  the  just  and  beautiful 
relation  of  colour.  But  to  be  a  great  painter 
a  man  must  also  have  a  great  spirit.  He 
III  177  M 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

must  be  a  dreamer,  and  not  be  ashamed  of 
his  dreams  ;  must,  indeed,  account  them  of 
paramount  worth  ;  he  must  be  prepared 
for  both  indifference  and  hostihty  ;  he 
must  be  so  continent  of  his  faith  that  he  will 
not  barter  the  least  portion  of  it  in  order  to 
win  a  worthless  approval  ;  he  must  be  so 
proud  that  he  will  disdain  to  prostitute  his 
genius  to  a  public  use  ;  he  must  be  so 
single-hearted  that,  like  Sir  Galahad,  there 
can  be  for  him  only  one  San  Grael,  beauty  ; 
and  only  one  quest,  the  lifelong  insistent 
effort  to  discern  and  to  interpret  in  beauty 
that  Loveliness,  that  Beauty,  which  is  at 
once  his  inspiration,  his  dream,  his  despair 
and  his  eternal  hope." 

Thus  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones  :  so  far 
as,  helped  by  a  few  notes,  I  can  recall  his 
words. 

When  the  visitor  had  left  he  turned  to  us 
with  a  deprecatory  shrug.  "  The  good 
fellow  means  so  well,"  he  said,  "  and  is 
really  a  shrewd  judge  of  art  in  its  relation  to 
commercial  value  ;  but  he  is  a  type  of  that 
vast  mass,  '  the  general  public,'  who  cannot 
understand  the  unselfish  devotion  of  the 
creative  artist  to  his  art  ;  who  can  under- 
stand success  and  can  understand  failure, 
but     cannot    understand    how    sometimes 

178 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

success  may  be  undesirable  and  even 
disastrous,  or  how  relative  failure  may  be  a 
great  and  far-reaching  triumph.  As  for 
what  I  said  about  Millais,  I  feel  that  deeply, 
though  I  could  not  say  more  than  I  did 
before  our  friend  who  has  just  left,  who 
would  repeat  my  words  to  all  and  sundry, 
and  probably  to  Millais  himself.  But  at 
nearly  all  his  later  work  I  look  with  be- 
wildered pain.  He  might  have  been  so 
great  ;  but  just  when  his  noble  powers  had 
reached  maturity  the  artist  died  in  him  and 
left  only  the  splendid  craftsman.  And  this 
was  because  he  hstened  to  that  fatal  siren- 
song  of  the  ignorant  and  spiritually  Vulgar 
multitude,  who  love  to  look  at  pictures  but 
who  are  distrustful  of— when  they  are  not 
actually  resentful  against — art,  unless  it  be 
as  old  (and  foreign)  as  Rembrandt,  or  as 
old  (and  foreign)  as  Titian  or  Raphael.  As  a 
younger  man  Millais  set  himself  to  interpret 
noble  things  nobly,  beautiful  things  beauti- 
fully. Are  not  his  Autumn  Leaves  and  his 
Vale  of  Rest  worth  leagues  of  work  such  as 
he  has  been  doing  of  late  ?  And  I  for  one 
do  not  hesitate  to  aver  that  Rossetti,  in  his 
splendid  failure  in  art,  was  far  greater  both 
in  achievement  and  influence  than  Millais  is 
in  his  brilliant  success.     A  man   is  to  be 

179 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

measured  by  his  soul's  reach  as  well  as  by 
that  of  his  hands.  What  is  a  man's  outlook 
is  as  important  in  art  as  it  is  in  life.  Many 
an  artist  is  redeemed  from  failure  by  the 
power  of  the  spirit  within  him.  Take 
Leighton  :  Millais  is  an  incomparably 
stronger  painter,  but  Leighton  is  dominated 
by  the  sense  of  beauty  of  idea  as  well  as 
beauty  of  pictorial  colour,  and  so  his  work 
has  a  loveliness,  a  grace,  above  all  a  dis- 
tinction which  Ufts  it  to  a  level  not  warranted 
by  its  inherent  quahty  as  painting  pure 
and  simple.  In  a  word,  his  outlook  upon 
life  is  towards  that  in  it  which  is  most 
worthy  to  survive  in  beauty.  Millais',  now, 
is  towards  that  which  most  conduces  to  his 
own  well-being.  The  two  may  go  together, 
when  the  lesser  is  controlled  and  directed  by 
the  greater  ;  but  not  otherwise.  If  Millais 
had  Leighton's  sense  of  beauty  and  dis- 
tinction, or  Leighton  had  Millais'  magnificent 
painting  power,  the  result  would  be  a  painter 
of  genius  of  the  supreme  few.  More  and 
more  I  am  convinced  that  Rossetti  was 
right  when  he  declared  that  all  art  should  be 
amusing,  but  that  the  artist  should  follow 
his  art  with  the  passionate  sincerity  and  un- 
worldly devotion  of  a  man  such  as  Fra 
AngeHco  :    though  by  '  amusing,'   Rossetti 

i8o 


Sir  Edward  Burnc-Jones 

meant  something  else  than  entertainment, 
as  in  his  allusion  to  Fra  AngeHco  he  meant 
rather  that  inward  spirit  of  which  the  great 
pre-Raphaehte  is  but  a  noble  and  re- 
cognised symbol.  You  know  ....  and 
how  he  is  exercised  in  spirit  before  he  can 
paint  a  new  picture,  and  how  he  cannot 
attain  adequate  expressional  power  until  he 
has  prayed,  just  as  AngeUco  was  wont  to 
pray.  Well,  I  do  not  pray  thus  ;  and  the 
worse  for  me,  perhaps  ;  but  I,  too,  never 
paint  a  new  picture  till  after  infinite  search- 
ing of  the  spirit  for  the — for  me — ultimate 
and  inevitable  expression,  any  more  than  I 
would  dream  of  beginning  a  new  picture 
without  making  complete  and  satisfying 
prehminary  studies  of  every  detail,  often 
at  the  expense  of  days  and  even  weeks  I  can 
ill  afford,  and  of  incalculable  labour." 

To  this  effect,  then,  Burne- Jones  spoke, 
and  I  quote  the  gist  of  his  remarks  because 
they  have  so  intimate  a  relation  to  himself, 
to  his  own  art.  To  know  the  man  is  to 
know  the  art  of  the  man  ;  though  the 
knowledge  must  be  of  the  inward  hfe  and 
shaping  spirit,  and  not  that  of  the  arbi- 
trary and  accidental  part.  Spirits  are  not 
finely  touched  but  to  fine  issues,  as  Bacon 
has  said  ;  and,  it  may  be  added,  spirits  are 

i8i 


Sir  Edward  Burnc-Jones 

not    finely   known    but    to    those    akin    to 
them. 

In  all  the  long  range  of  his  beautiful  work, 
Edward  Burne-Jones  displays  the  un- 
wavering outlook  of  a  rare  and  noble  imagi- 
nation. Some  who  do  not  care  for  his  work, 
or  for  any  art  of  its  kind,  admit  that  he  is  a 
great  decorative  artist ;  that  in  stained  glass 
and  in  purely  decorative  design  he  takes 
very  high  rank.  But  he  was  far  more  than 
this  ;  far  more,  too,  than  the  mere  beautiful 
dreamer  of  impossible  dreams  which  so 
many  have  held  him  to  be.  For  he  was  a 
man  moved  by  the  great  forces  of  life, 
moved  so  strongly  that,  by  the  same  instinct 
as  impelled  Tennyson  to  write  anew  the 
Arthurian  legends,  as  moved  William  Morris 
to  create  the  Earthly  Paradise,  as  moved 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  to  build  the  House 
of  Life,  he  in  turn  made  his  own  art  an 
interior  criticism  of  exterior  circumstances, 
laws,  and  issues,  and  so  wrought  for  us 
Laus  Veneris,  with  its  symbohcal  tapestry 
background — the  passion  of  love,  which 
some  one  has  called  the  bass  note  in  the 
diapason  of  life,  against  the  strange  and 
often  fantastically  incongruous  background 
of  actuahty ;  or  The  Mirror  of  Venus, 
wherein  those  in  love  with  love,  and  wrought 

182 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

strangely  by  the  passion  of  passion,  look 
into  the  mysterious  waters  of  hfe  to  read  the 
riddle  of  their  deep  emotion,  while  behind 
them  is  a  lovely  and  remote  background  of 
exquisite  innocences,  desires,  and  dreams  ; 
or  Pan  and  Psyche,  where  the  old  bewilder- 
ment that  for  ever  divides  soul  and  body, 
and  is  now,  in  our  late  day,  more  than  ever 
a  poignant  and  baffling  incertitude,  is 
painted  with  an  insight  so  absolute,  and  a 
beauty  so  unfathomable,  that  this  small 
painting  may  well  be  accounted  as  perfect 
in  its  kind  in  English  art  as  another  small 
picture,  the  Ariadne  and  Bacchus  of  Tin- 
toretto, in  the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice,  is  in 
Venetian  art ;  or  The  Beguiling  of  Merlin, 
where  the  eternal  duel  between  the  desiring 
flesh  and  the  withholding  spirit  is  inter- 
preted anew  through  the  air  of  lovely  old- 
world  romance  ;  Pygmalion  and  Galatea, 
where  the  ecstasy  of  dream,  the  passion  of 
effort,  the  rapture  of  attainment,  are  un- 
folded as  in  a  scroll  for  every  dreaming 
mind ;  Perseus  and  Andromeda,  where, 
again,  is  revealed  the  high  dream  of  divine 
justice  ;  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  where 
lives  before  us  the  vision  of  the  inevitable 
triumph  of  indomitable  good  over  van- 
quishable  evil  ;     The  Sleepers  of  the  Briar 

183 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

Rose,  where,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  discern  those 
sons  of  God  within  us  which  we  call  dreams, 
hopes,  aspirations,  faiths,  desires,  spell- 
bound in  terrible  and  beautiful  silence — 
Sleepers,  these,  against  the  awakening  hour, 
against  the  quickening  breath  of  the  de- 
livering thought,  the  delivering  vision,  the 
deliverance  through  the  long-baffled  but 
invincible,  and  so  in  the  end  achieving  quest 
of  the  soul  for  treasures  hidden  behind 
entanghng  thickets,  among  impenetrable 
woods,  for  a  heritage  beyond  the  dust  of 
crowns  and  the  void  wind  that  blows  where 
empires  have  been  ;  or,  once  more,  The 
Days  of  Creation,  wherein  the  Word  is  made 
manifest  in  new  beauty,  the  mystery  of  the 
professional  order  of  the  Divine  evocation 
symbohcally  shown  as  it  were  in  the  Very 
ideograms  of  heaven. 

Of  all  spiritual  forces  in  our  time  there  is 
none  so  great  as  that  of  pity,  with  the 
cognate  passionate  sense  of  the  redeeming 
power  of  love.  It  is  this  element  which 
gives  its  rarest  bloom  and  fragrance  to  the 
rarest  and  finest  and  noblest,  in  a  word  to 
the  most  spiritual  art  of  to-day,  whether 
expressed  in  words  or  in  colour  and  form. 
In  the  prose  of  such  an  one  as  Maeterlinck, 
in  the  poetry  of  such  as  one  as  W.  B.  Yeats, 

184 


Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones 

in  the  fiction  of  such  an  one  as  Thomas 
Hardy,  in  music  such  as  that  of  Greig,  in 
pictorial  art  such  as  that  of  Edward  Burne- 
Jones,  we  are  arrested  by  the  loveher  in- 
terpretations of  this  deep  and  poignant 
sense  of  the  tragic  piteousness  of  Hfe,  of  the 
imperative  need  to  interpret  through  beauty 
its  spiritual  correspondence. 

The  art  of  Burne- Jones,  in  its  noblest 
manifestation,  seems  to  me,  then,  a  new  and 
individual  revelation,  in  new  and  convincing 
beauty,  of  those  spiritual  ideas  which  are 
shaping  the  deepest  and  most  distinctive 
thought  of  to-day.  What  has  come  to  him 
in  the  common  light  of  day,  he  has  trans- 
muted into  the  hght  of  romance  :  what 
impelled  his  thought  by  its  nearness  and 
exigency,  his  imagination  has  compelled 
into  a  still  and  remote  beauty,  whence  all 
of  fret  and  fever  is  gone,  whence  all  that  is 
incongruous,  all  that  is  superfluous,  is 
disengaged  ;  where  the  confused  and  varie- 
gated vision  of  the  many  is  resolved  into  the 
controlled  and  directed  vision  of  the  seer. 
It  is  not  imagination  that  achieves  :  imagin- 
tion  only  uphfts  :  it  is  controlled  imagina- 
tion that  achieves.  And  it  is  by  virtue  of 
his  controlled  and  directed  imagination  that 
Burne- Jones,  since  he  was  twenty-five  till 

185 


Sir  Edward  Burne- Jones 

at  sixty-five  he  ceased  working  to  dream 
the  last  dream,  has  given  to  us  a  more 
incalculable  and  enduring  treasure  of  beauty, 
with  an  influence  for  good  even  more  in- 
calculable— and,  so  far  as  we  dare  foresee, 
even  more  enduring — as  no  other  genius  of 
our  time  has  done  with  the  exception  of 
Rossetti,  whose  primary  greatness  is  that  he 
was  and  has  been,  to  adapt  his  own  words, 
a  central  flame  descending  upon  many 
altars- 

1898. 


186 


PERSONAL  REMINISCENCES  OF 

WALTER  PATER 

Ix  if 
I  FIRST  met  Walter  Pater  fourteen  years  ago,  -  c*(l'Vo 
at  the  house  of  Mr.  George  T.  Robinson  in 
Gower  Street,  at  that  time  a  meeting-place 
for  poets,  novelists,  dramatists,  writers  of 
all  kinds,  painters,  sculptors,  musicians,  and 
all  manner  of  folk,  pilgrims  from  or  to  the 
only  veritable  Bohemia.  The  host  and 
hostess  had  the  rare  faculty  of  keeping  as 
well  as  of  winning  friends,  and  were  held  in 
affectionate  esteem  by  all  who  knew  them  ; 
but  the  dehghtfully  promiscuous  gatherings, 
where  all  amalgamated  so  well,  were  due 
in  great  part  to  the  brilliant  young*  scholar- 
poet,  Miss  A.  Mary  F.  Robinson  (Madame 
Darmesteter),  and  to  her  sister,  now  the 
well-known  novelist,  Miss  Mabel  Robinson, 
Among  the  many  avocations  into  which 
Miss  Mary  Robinson  allowed  herself  to  be 
allured  from  her  true  vocation  was  that  of 
soror  consolatrix  to  all  young  fellow-poets  in 
difficulty  or  distress  ;  and  of  these,  none  had 
better  cause  to  realise  her  goodness  of  heart 

187 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

and  illumining  sympathy  than  the  blind  poet, 
Phihp  Bourke  Marston.  In  1880  and  1881, 
it  was  rare  that  a  week  elapsed  throughout 
nine  months  of  the  year  when  Miss  Robinson 
did  not  give  up  at  least  an  hour  or  two  one 
afternoon  for  reading  to  and  talking  with  the 
friend  whom  she  so  much  admired  and  so 
much  pitied.  It  was  within  a  week  after 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  had  sent  me  with  a 
special  letter  of  introduction  to  Marston 
that  he,  in  turn,  took  me  to  the  house  of  the 
only  friend  in  London  who  in  any  adequate 
degree  filled  for  him  the  void  created  by 
the  loss  of  his  comrade,  Oliver  Madox 
Brown  ;  and  though  I  went  with  pleasure, 
having  read  with  keen  appreciation  A 
Handful  of  Honeysuckle,  I  had  no  idea  how 
much,  and  in  how  many  ways,  my  entry 
into  that  friendly  circle  was  to  mean  to 
me. 

One  afternoon,  Philip  Marston  surprised 
me  with  the  suggestion  that  we  should  make 
a  formal  call  at  Gower  Street.  As  he  had 
been  there,  and  I  with  him,  for  a  long 
"  confab,"  the  previous  day,  and  as  I  knew 
his  dislike  of  "  afternoons,"  there  seemed 
something  perverse  in  his  proposal ;  but 
when  he  added  oracularly,  "  Do  come  ;  5^ou 
won't  regret  it,"  there  was  nothing  more  to 

188 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

be  said.     When   we   entered   the   drawing- 
room,  at  that  happy  moment  when  the  last 
day-dusk  and  the  fire-glow  are  uninvaded 
by  any  more  garish  light,  I  saw  that  there 
were  a  few  visitors,  all  common  acquaint- 
ances with  one  exception.     The  exception 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  rather  heavily 
built,  with  a  peculiar  though  slight  stoop. 
His  face  was  pale,  and  perhaps  a  dark  and 
very  thick  mustache  made  it  seem  even  more 
so.     There  was    a    singular  impassiveness 
about    him,    which    I    noted    with    vague 
interest — aroused,   I  remember,  because  of 
what  appeared  to  me  a  remarkable  resem- 
blance to  Bismarck,  or  rather  to  a  possible 
Bismarck,  a  Bismarck  who  had  ceased  to  be 
a  Junker,  and  had  become  a  dreamer  and 
profound  student.     He  stood  by  the  piano, 
listening  to  something  said,  laughingly,  by 
Miss  Robinson,  though  his  face  had  not  even 
that  grave  smile  that  afterwards  became  so 
familiar   to   me,    and   his   eyes   were    fixed 
steadfastly  on  the  fire.     The  glow  fell  right 
across  them,  and  I  could  see  how  deep-set 
they  were,  and  of  what  a  peculiar  grey  ;    a 
variable  hue,  but  wherein  the  inner  light 
was  always  vivid,  and  sometimes  strangely 
keen  and  penetrating.     With  one  hand  he 
stroked  a  long-haired  cat  that  had  furtively 

189 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

crept  towards  him,  along  the  piano,  from  a 
high  chair  at  the  narrow  end. 

When  he  spoke  I  could  not  distinguish 
what  he  said,  but  I  was  aware  of  a  low; 
pleasant  voice,  altogether  unBismarckian. 
I  heard  Miss  Robinson  say  something  about 
Phihp  Marston  ;  but,  with  the  abruptness 
which  later  I  found  to  be  characteristic, 
her  companion  shook  hands  with  her  and 
his  hostess  and  bade  them  good-bye.  As  he 
neared  the  door  he  passed  Marston  and 
myself.  He  did  not  look  in  our  direction, 
yet  he  had  hardly  gained  the  threshold 
before  he  turned,  came  to  Marston's  side, 
and,  taking  his  hand  in  his,  pressed  it 
cordially,  saying  :  "  I  am  very  glad  to  meet 
you.  Your  poetry  has  given  me  great 
pleasure."  Then,  with  the  same  quiet 
abruptness  with  which  he  had  left  Miss 
Robinson,  he  made  his  way  from  the  room. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  must  be  Walter  Pater,"  rephed 
Marston,  almost  in  a  whisper,  for  he  did 
not  know  whether  the  visitor  was  still  near 
or  in  the  room  at  all. 

"  Surely  not,"  I  urged,  having  in  mind  a 
description  of  the  author  of  the  book  that 
was  a  kind  of  gospel  of  joy  to  me — a 
description   ludicrously   inexact   and   inapt, 

190 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

"though  given  by  a  member  of  the  college 
of  which  Mr.  Pater  was  a  Fellow. 

"  Yes,  it  must  have  been  Pater.  I  knew 
he  was  to  be  here.  That  was  why  I  urged 
you  to  come.  If  only  we'd  come  earlier 
we  might  have  met  him  properly.  I  know 
every  other  voice  in  the  room  ;  and  I  am 
sure  that  was  no  other  than  the  voice  of 
Mr.  Rose." 

This  allusion  to  Mr.  Mallock's  parody  was 
apt  to  irritate  me  then,  and  I  was  about  to 
jump  to  that  red  rag  when  Miss  Robinson 
came  up,  seriously  reproachful  because  of 
the  lateness  of  our  arrival.  But  when  she 
saw  how  sorry  I  was  not  even  to  have  known 
at  whom  I  was  looking,  she  promised  that  a 
more  fortunate  opportunity  should  soon 
occur. 

Three  days  later  I  received  an  invitation 
to  dine  with  my  friends  in  Gower  Street, 
with  those  welcome  words  added,  "  to 
meet  Mr.  Walter  Pater." 

On  the  second  occasion,  I  saw  Pater  in  a 
different  aspect.  He  was  suave,  polite, 
with  that  courteous  deference  he  showed  to 
the  young  as  well  as  to  his  equals  and  elders. 
I  have  never  forgotten  my  first  impression 
of  him,  when  he  appeared  in  that  austere  if 
not   almost   sombre   aspect   which,   though 

191 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

more  rarely  seen,  was  as  characteristic  as 
the  reserved  cordiahty  which  won  him  so 
many  friends. 

Even  at  that  early  period  of  our  acquaint- 
ance I  noticed  how  swiftly  responsive  he  was 
to  youth  as  youth.  When  he  spoke  to  one 
of  the  daughters  of  his  hostess,  or  to  any 
young  man  or  woman,  his  face  grew  more 
winsome,  and  a  serene,  almost  a  blithe  light 
came  into  his  eyes.  He  looked  so  alert, 
standing  by  a  tall  lamp  which  gave  a  warmer 
glow  to  his  complexion  than  its  wont,  that 
he  seemed  hardly  the  same  man  I  had  met 
before.  I  remember  the  attitude  and  look 
well,  for  it  flashed  upon  me  that  I  had  seen, 
in  an  old  city  of  Brabant,  a  portrait  of  a 
Flemish  gentleman  which,  but  for  the 
accidental  differences  in  dress  and  the  orna- 
mentation of  the  lamp,  might  have  been 
painted  from  him  there  and  then.  I  suppose 
he  noted  my  intent  look,  for,  though  we 
had  not  yet  been  introduced,  he  came  over 
to  me,  held  out  his  hand,  and  asked  how 
Philip  Marston  was,  saying  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  him  the  other  day.  I  was,  of  course, 
surprised  that  he  had  recognised  me  ;  for, 
as  I  have  said,  so  far  as  I  was  aware  he  had 
not  looked  our  way,  on  the  afternoon  in 
question,  until  he  made  his  abrupt  and  brief 

192 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

advance  to  Marston.  Gravely  smiling,  and 
with  eyes  filled  with  a  kind  and  friendly 
light,  he  added  :  "I  recognised  you  at  once. 
I  am  accustomed  to  seeing,  and  noting, 
young  faces  ;  and  when  once  I  note,  I  never 
forget.  But  not  only  do  I  recognise  you  ; 
I  know  who  you  are." 

At  this  comphmentary  remark  my  heart 
sank,  for  at  that  time  I  was  absolutely 
unknown  as  a  writer,  and  was  sure  that 
nothing  of  my  youthful  scribbling  could 
have  come  to  Mr.  Pater's  knowledge,  or, 
having  come,  could  have  attracted  his 
attention.  I  feared,  therefore,  he  had 
mistaken  me  for  some  notable  young  poet 
or  novehst,  and  that  when  he  learned  I  was 
a  "  nobody  "  his  interest  would  be  less 
cordial.  But  his  ensuing  words  set  me  at 
ease.  This  meeting  happened  at  a  time 
when  I  had  begun  to  see  a  good  deal  of 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  then  so  much  a 
recluse  that  almost  no  strangers,  and  few 
even  of  friends  and  acquaintances,  pene- 
trated the  isolation  in  which  he  lived. 

With  a  kind  touch  on  my  shoulder  Pater 
repeated  my  name,  and  then  asked  about 
Rossetti,  and  told  me  that  after  dinner  he 
wanted  to  have  a  chat  with  me  about  the 
poet-painter,   "  the  greatest   man  we  have 

ill  193  N 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

among  us,  in  point  of  influence  upon  poetry, 
and  perhaps  painting." 

I  had  been  told  that  Walter  Pater  was 
too  reticent,  too  reserved,  perhaps  too  self- 
absorbed  to  be  a  good  or  even  an  interesting 
conversationalist  at  a  dinner-party.  Then, 
and  later,  I  had  opportunity  to  note  that 
if  he  was  self-absorbed  he  did  not  betray 
it,  and  that  he  was  neither  reserved  in 
manner  nor  reticent  of  speech.  That  even- 
ing he  was  possessed  by  a  happy  gaiety. 
Humour  was  never  Pater's  strong  point,  but 
on  that  occasion  he  was  both  humorous  and 
witty,  though  with  the  quiet  wit  and  humour 
of  the  Hollander,  rather  than  of  the  French- 
man. From  the  first,  I  never  took  Walter 
Pater  for  an  Englishman.  In  appearance, 
in  manner,  he  suggested  the  Fleming  or  the 
Hollander  ;  in  the  mien  and  carriage  of  his 
mind,  so  to  say,  he  was  a  Frenchman  of  that 
old  northern  t3'pe  which  had  its  meditative 
and  quiet  extreme  in  Maurice  de  Guerin,  and 
its  intensely  actual  extreme  in  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant. Neither  mentally  nor  physically 
could  I  discern  anything  British  in  him,  save 
in  his  appreciations  ;  and  he  had  traits  which 
affiliated  him  to  those  old  Huguenot  bearers  of 
his  name  who  no  doubt  had  a  strong  Flemish 
strain  in  their  French  blood. 

194 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

After  the  ladies  had  gone,  we  found 
ourselves  next  each  other.  At  once  he 
began  to  speak  to  me  about  Rossetti,  asking 
first  many  questions  as  to  his  health,  his 
way  of  Hfe,  and  what  he  was  doing  with 
brush  and  pen. 

"  Of  the  six  men  now  living,"  he  said,  \ 
"who  are  certain  to  be  famous  in  days  to  '^ 
come — Tennyson,  Browning,  Ruskin,  Mat-  VvtuoL^i^  ^ 
thew  Arnold,  Rossetti,  and  Swinburne — 
one  is,  in  my  judgment,  the  most  signi- 
ficant as  well  as  the  most  fascinating.  Of 
these,  Ruskin  has  had  by  far  the  most 
influence  over  the  sentiment  of  people ; 
Arnold  has  exercised  the  most  potent 
influence  on  intellectual  manners,  and 
probably  on  intellectual  method  ;  and 
Tennyson  has  imposed  a  new  and  exigent 
conception  of  poetic  art,  and  has  profoundly 
affected  the  technique  not  only  of  con- 
temporary poetry,  but  of  that  which  is  yet 
unwritten.  As  for  Browning,  he  is,  and 
perhaps  long  will  be,  the  greatest  stimulus 
to  hopeful  endeavour^  He  is  the  finest  re- 
presentative of  workable  optimism  whom 
England  has  given  us.  I  am  convinced 
that  hundreds  of  people  who  dehght  in  his 
writings  are  primarily  attracted  by  his 
robust,  happy-go-lucky,  hail-fellow-well-met 

195 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

attitude  towards  what  he  himself  prefers 
to  call  Providence,  and  to  the  tragic  un- 
certainties and  certain  tragicalities  of  life. 
How  often  one  hears  the  remark,  given  with 
conclusive  emphasis,  V  Ah,  but  how  hopeful 
he  is  of  every  one  and  everything'!  No 
one  can  admire  Browning  at  his  best  more 
than  I  do  ;  but  I  do  not  think  his  genius  is 
so  wedded  to  his  conscious  and  often  tyran- 
nical optimism  as  is  commonly  supposed." 

"  Then  Robert  Browning  is  not  the  one 
of  the  six  to  whom  you  refer  so  specially  ?  " 

"  No ;  certainly  not.  Browning  is  a 
great  poet,  perhaps  a  greater  than  any  of 
us  know.  Unquestionably,  he,  and  he  only, 
can  be  thought  of  as  the  successor  to  the 
Laureateship,  if,  as  is  likely,  he  survive 
Tennyson.  I  think  of  him  sometimes  as  a 
superb  god  of  poetry,  so  proudly  heedless 
or  reckless  that  he  never  notices  the  loss  of 
his  winged  sandals,  and  that  he  is  stumbling 
clumsily  where  he  might  well  lightly  be 
lifting  his  steps  against  the  sunway  where 
his  eyes  are  set.  But  I  do  think  he  will  be 
much  read  in  the  future,  as  he  is  now,.^ 
chiefly  as  a  stimulant  to  high-heartedness, 
to  high  hope  and  a  robust  self-assurance,  i 
I  remember  Matthew  Arnold  saying  that 
he  would  admire  Browning  still  more  but 

196 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

\  for  his  depressing  optimism. of  Balliol, 

who  had  never  met  Browning,  was  wont  to 
say  that  the  poet  must  be,  or  have  been,  a 
very  unhappy  man.  *  Such  a  robust  flouting 
of  probabilities,'  he  would  urge,  '  could 
be  due  only  to  the  inevitable  law  of  reaction 
— the  same  that  made  Keats  enjoy  a  beef- 
steak after  the  most  sentimental  dehverances 
in  Endymion,  or  that  made  Byron  go  off 
with  La  Guiccioli  after  he  had  extolled  the 
beauty  of  virtue.'  But  this  attitude  to- 
wards Browning  is  rare.  To  most  people 
he  is  an  inexhaustible  spring  of  hope.  And 
hope,  I  need  hardly  say,  is  to  most  people^ 
more  vitally  near  and  dear  than  poetry  ; 
or,  if  you  will,  let  me  say  that  it  is  poetry, 
the  poetry  many  of  us  can  feel  in  the  twilight 
rather  than  in  any  poem,  or  in  the  day,  at 
daybreak  or  simset,  rather  than  in  any 
painting  by  old  master  or  new." 

"  Then  was  your  particular  allusion  to 
Rossetti  ?  " 

"  Yes.  To  my  mind  he  is  the  most 
significant  man  among  us.  More  torches 
will  be  lit  from  his  flame — or  from  torches 
lit  at  his  flame — than  perhaps  even  en- 
thusiasts like  yourself  imagine." 

At  this  point  a  well-known  critic  inter- 
vened,  with  somewhat   obtrusive  asperity, 

197 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

to  the  effect  that  Arnold  would  be  read 
when  Rossetti  was  forgotten,  that  Browning 
would  be  read  when  Arnold  was  forgotten, 
and  that  Tennyson  would  still  be  familiar 
to  all  lovers  of  poetry  when  Browning 
would  be  known  only  of  students  and 
readers  curious  in  past  vogues  and  ideals. 

Pater  did  not  often  laugh,  but  when  he 
did  it  was  always  with  a  catching  geniality. 
His  laugh  at  this  juncture  prevented  a 
heated  argument,  and  enabled  him  to  waive 
the  subject  without  any  appearance  of 
discourtesy.  Smilingly  he  remarked  :  "  We 
have  all  drifted  into  the  Future.  Post- 
humous conversation  is  unsatisfactory. 
Besides,  prophets  never  think  much  of 
other  people's  prophecies.  Talking  of 
prophets,  how  delightfully  cocksure  Arnold 
is  when  he  is  in  the  grand  vein,  as  in  that 
last  paper  of  his  !  Do  you  not  think  " — 
And  so  the  breakers  were  safely  weathered, 
and  "  the  wide  vague  "  safely  gained  again. 

Before  we  parted  that  night,  Walter 
Pater  had  made  me  promise  to  visit  him  in 
Oxford — a  promise  given  only  too  gladly, 
though  without  an  over-sanguine  hope  of 
its  fulfilment,  a  possibility  that  at  that 
time  seemed  too  good  to  be  realisable.  I 
could    not    then    understand    why    Pater 

198 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

should   take   so   genuine   an   interest   in   a 
young  man  who  had  "  done  nothing,"  and 
of  whose  possibihties  he  knew  Httle  save 
by  vague  and  friendly  hearsay  ;    but  later 
I  understood  better.     I  was  young  and  full 
of  hope  and  eager  energy,  and  had  travelled 
much  and  far,  and  experienced  not  a  few 
strange    vicissitudes.     This    of    itself    was 
enough  to  interest  Pater  ;    indeed,  I  have 
known    him    profoundly    interested    in    an 
undergraduate   simply   because   the   young 
man   was   joyously  youthful,   and  had   an 
Etonian   reputation   as   a   daredevil   scape- 
grace.    Shortly  before  I  first  came  to  London 
in  1879,   I  had  returned  from  a  long  and 
eventful  voyage  in  the  Pacific  and  Antarctic  ; 
and  on  that  first  night,  and  on  many  nights 
thereafter,  it  seemed  to  give  my  new  and 
much-revered  friend  a  singular  pleasure  to 
listen  to  my  haphazard  narrative  of  strange 
sights   I   had  seen  and  experiences   I   had 
undergone.     The    reason    of    this    extreme 
interest  in  all  youthful,  unconventional,  or 
unusual   life   was   that    Pater   himself   had 
never   been   joyously   young,   and   that   he 
lacked    the    inborn    need    as    well    as    the 
physical  energy  for  adventurous  life,  whether 
upon  the  cricket  field  and  the  river,  or  on 
the  high  seas  and  in  remote  lands. 

199 


V 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

My  first  visit  to  Walter  Pater  was  my 
first  visit  to  Oxford.  I  leave  to  enthusiasts 
for  that  fair  city  of  towers  and  spires,  who 
may  also  be  admirers  of  one  of  the 
worthiest  of  her  sons,  to  imagine  with  what 
eager  pleasure  I  went,  with  what  keen 
pleasure  I  drank  deep  during  a  few  happy 
days  at  this  new  fount,  so  full  of  fresh  and 
delightful  fascination. 

Pater  then  lived,  with  his  two  sisters,  in 
a  pretty  house  a  short  way  out  of  the  actual 
town.  He  had,  moreover,  his  Fellow's  rooms 
at  Brasenose,  where  sometimes  he  preferred 
to  stay  when  much  preoccupied  with  his 
work,  and  where  occasionally  he  put  up  an 
invited  guest.  I  came  to  know  these  rooms 
well  later,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  my  first 
impression  of  them.  The  sitting-room,  or 
study,  was  in  a  projection  of  Brasenose; 
looking  out  upon  the  picturesque,  narrow 
public  way.  There  was  a  snug,  inset, 
cushioned  comer,  much  loved  and  fre- 
quented by  its  owner — always  thereafter 
to  me  a  haunted  corner  in  a  haunted  room. 
My  first  impression  then  of  the  tout-ensemble 
was  of  its  delicate  austerity.  There  was  a 
quiet  simplicity  everywhere,  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  dweller ;  but  one  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  this  austerity  was  due 

200 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

to  an  imperious  refinement,  to  a  scrupulous 
selection.  There  were  low-set  bookshelves, 
filled  with  volumes  which  were  the  quin- 
tessential part  of  the  library  Pater  might 
have  had  if  he  had  cared  for  the  mere 
accumulation  of  books.  Most  of  them 
were  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  German 
and  French  works  on  aesthetics,  and  the 
treasures  of  French  and  English  imaginative 
Hterature.  To  my  surprise,  I  noticed,  in 
one  section,  several  volumes  of  distinctly 
minor  contemporary  poetry  ;  but  these 
proved  to  be  presentation  copies,  for  which 
Pater  always  had  a  tender  heart.  "  To  part 
with  a  book  containing  an  inscription  of 
personal  regard,  affection,  or  homage,"  he 
said  to  me  once,  "is  to  me  like  throwing  on 
to  the  high-road  rare  blooms  brought  from 
a  distance  by  kind  or  loving  friends," 

While  I  was  examining  some  of  these 
volumes,  that  evening,  he  took  a  leather 
portfolio  from  a  cabinet. 

"  Here  is  what  dehghts  me.  This  port- 
folio contains  only  manuscript  poems.  Some 
are  manuscript  copies  of  poems  that  tlje 
world  already  possesses  ;  others  are  copies 
of  verses  which  are  to  appear  in  due  course  ; 
and  a  few  are  the  actual  originals,  in  even 
the  most  immature  of  which  I  have  a  rare 

201 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

pleasure.  If  it  were  practicable,  I  would 
read  all  poetry,  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
handwriting  of  the  poet.  There  is  always, 
to  me,  an  added  charm  when  I  can  do  so, 
an  atmosphere.  The  poem  gains,  and  my 
insight  or  sympathy  is  swifter  and  sure.  I 
am  conscious  of  this  also  in  prose,  though 
perhaps  not  so  keenly,  and  certainly  not 
so  frequently.  Of  course  there  is  one 
exception — every  one,  surely,  must  feel  the 
same  here  ;  that  is,  in  the  instance  of  letters. 
Imagine  the  pleasure  of  reading  the  intimate 
letters  of  Michael  Angelo,  of  Giorgione,  of 
Lionardo,  of  Dante,  of  Spenser,  of  Shake- 
speare, of  Goethe,  in  the  originals  !  It 
would  be  like  looking  on  a  landscape  in 
clear  sunHght  or  moonhght,  after  having 
viewed  it  only  through  mist  or  haze." 

"  Several  young  writers,"  he  continued, 
"  have  sent  their  manuscript  to  me  to  look 
over  ;  and  at  this  moment  I  have  two  small 
manuscript  books  by  undergraduates  of 
exceptional  promise.  But  I  will  show  you 
what  will  interest  you  more.  Here  is  a 
copy  of  The  Sea-Limits  in  Rossetti's  own 
writing.  He  made  the  copy  at  a  friend's 
request.  Here  is  a  page  of  Atalanta  in 
Calydon,  which  was  given  to  me  as  the 
original,  though  very  Hkely  it  is  only  a  copy 

202 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

made  by  Swinburne.  I  must  find  out  from 
him  some  day.  Matthew  Arnold  gave  me 
this  original,  or  first  cop3^  of  the  first  three 
stanzas  of  his  Morality.  All  these  others, 
here,  are  autograph  poems,  or  part  poems, 
or  prose  passages,  by  Ruskin,  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Meredith,  Victor  Hugo  ;  though, 
alas,  few  of  these  are  my  own,  but  have 
been  lent  to  me.  Even  this  vicarious 
ownership  is  a  joy." 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  written  verse 
himself.  He  said  he  had,  and  that  before 
his  twenty-fifth  year  he  had  written  a  good 
deal  in  verse,  and  had  made  many  metrical 
translations  from  the  Greek  anthology,  from 
Goethe,  and  from  Alfred  de  Musset  and  other 
French  poets. 

"  At  twenty-five  I  destroyed  all,  or  nearly 
all — everything  in  verse  which  had  survived. 
In  none  of  my  original  efforts  was  there  any 
distinction.  Not  one  had  that  atmosphere 
of  its  own  which  there  is  no  mistaking. 
But  I  learned  much  through  the  writing  of 
Verse,  and  still  more  through  metrical  trans- 
lation. I  have  great  faith  in  scrupulous 
and  sympathetic  translation  as  a  training 
in  English  composition.  At  one  time  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  translating  a  page  from  some 
ancient  or  modern  prose  writer  every  da}/ : 

203 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

Tacitus  or  Livy,  Plato  or  Aristotle,  Goethe 
or  Lessing  or  Winckelmann,  and  once, 
month  after  month,  Flaubert  and  Sainte- 
Beuve." 

But  though  the  books  in  Walter  Pater's 
rooms  were  a  special  attraction,  the  first 
thing  to  catch  the  eye  was  a  large  and  fine 
alto-rilievo,  a  Madonna  by  Luca  della 
Robbia,  the  exquisite  dehcacy  and  soft 
cream-white  tone  of  which  not  only  har- 
monised with,  but  seemed  to  focus  the  other 
things  in  the  room— the  few  etchings 
against  the  dull  yellow  wall-paper,  one  or 
two  old  Itahan  bronze  ornaments  that 
caught  the  sheen  of  sunlight  or  lamplight, 
a  low,  wide  piece  of  Wedgewood  full  of  white 
flowers,  a  slim  gold-brown  vase  on  the  broad 
sill,  containing  wall-flowers,  or  flowering 
lavender,  or  chrysanthemums,  or  winter 
aconites,  as  the  season  went. 

The  afternoon  sunlight  pervaded  the 
room  with  a  quiet  beauty.  The  interior 
looked  to  me  like  an  old  picture,  with 
something  of  the  home  charm  of  the  finest 
Dutch  art,  and  more  of  the  remote  grace, 
the  haven-like  serenity,  so  beloved  of  the 
early  Itahans.  I  noticed  a  long  ray  of 
sunHght  slant  across  the  flowers  and  waver 
into  a  shadowy  corner,  where  it  moved  like 

204 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

a  golden  finger,  and  seemed  to  point  out  or 
lead  forth  unexpected  vagaries  of  light  and 
shade.  When  I  glanced  at  my  companion, 
I  saw  that  his  gaze  was  arrested  by  the  same 
vagrant  sunbeam.  He  began  to  speak  in  a 
low  voice  about  gold  :  the  gold  of  nature  ; 
above  all,  the  chemic  action  of  golden  light  ; 
and  how  it  was  "  the  primary  colour  of 
dehght "  throughout  nature  and  in  nearly 
all  art. 

"  Through  all  writing,  too,  that  is  rare 
and  distinctive  and  beautiful,"  he  said, 
"  there  is  a  golden  thread.  Perhaps  the 
most  skilful  weavers  are  those  who  so 
disguise  it  in  the  weft  that  its  charm  is 
felt  though  its  presence  is  undetected,  or  at 
least  unobtruded." 

Later,  when  the  lamp  was  lit,  he  read,  at 
my  request,  the  revised  version  of  his  then 
unpublished  (in  book  form)  essay,  entitled 
The  School  of  Giorgione  :  chosen  be- 
cause of  the  allusions  in  it  to  that  very 
alchemy  of  gold  light  of  which  he  had 
spoken  :  "  colouring,  that  weaving  as  of  just 
perceptible  gold  threads  of  light  through 
the  dress,  the  flesh,  the  atmosphere,  in 
Titian's  Lace-Girl — the  staining  of  the  whole 
fabric  of  the  thing  with  a  new,  dehghtful 
physical   quahty  ;  "     "  the   accidental   play 

205 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

of  sunlight  and  shadow  for  a  moment  on  the 
wall  or  floor  ;  "  "  this  particular  effect  of 
hght,  this  sudden  inweaving  of  gold  thread 
through  the  texture  of  the  haystack,  and 
the  poplars,  and  the  grass."  "  Only,  in 
Italy  all  natural  things  are,  as  it  were, 
woven  through  and  through  with  gold 
thread,  even  the  cypress  revealing  it  among 
the  folds  of  its  blackness.  And  it  is  with 
gold  dust,  or  gold  thread,  that  these  Venetian 
painters  seem  to  work,  spinning  its  fine 
filaments  through  the  solemn  human  flesh, 
away  into  the  white  plastered  walls  of  the 
thatched  huts." 

How  well  I  remember  that  first  lesson 
in  the  way  rightly  to  apprehend  art  ;  how 
"  to  estimate  the  degree  in  which  a  given 
work  of  art  fulfils  its  responsibilities  to  its 
special  material ;  to  note  in  a  picture  that 
true  pictorial  charm,  which  is  neither  a 
mere  poetical  thought  or  sentiment  on  the 
one  hand,  nor  a  mere  result  of  communicable 
technical  skill  in  colour  or  design  on  the 
■  other  ;  to  define  in  a  poem  that  true 
poetical  quahty,  which  is  neither  descriptive 
nor  meditative  merely,  but  comes  of  an 
inventive  handHng  of  rhythmical  language — 
I  the  element  of  song  in  the  singing  ;  to  note 
in  music  the  musical  charm — that  essential 

206 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

music,  which  presents  no  words,  no  de- 
finable matter  of  sentiment  or  thought, 
separable  from  the  special  form  in  which 
it  is  conveyed  to  us." 

When  he  read,  Pater  spoke  in  a  low  voice, 
rather  hesitatingly  at  first,  and  sometimes 
almost  constrainedly.  Soon,  however,  he 
became  absorbed  ;  then  his  face  would 
hght  up  as  with  an  inner  glow,  he  would 
lean  forward,  and  though  his  voice  neither 
quickened  nor  intensified  there  was  in  it  a 
new  vibration.  Occasionally,  he  would 
move  his  right  hand  slowly,  with  an  un- 
dulating motion. 

For  three  or  four  days  he  was  my  guide 
in  Oxford,  but  my  happiest  recollections 
are  of  our  walks  in  Christ  Church  meadows 
and  by  the  banks  of  the  Cherwell.  He 
walked  heavily,  and,  particularly  when 
tired,  with  a  halting  step  that  suggested 
partial  lameness.  He  was  singularly  ob- 
servant of  certain  natural  objects,  aspects, 
and  conditions,  more  especially  of  the 
movement  of  hght  in  grass  and  among 
leaves,  of  all  fragrances,  of  flowing  water  ; 
but  with  this  he  was,  I  presume  wilfully, 
bhnd  to  human  passers-by.  Often  I  have 
seen  some  fellow-don  wave  a  greeting  to  him, 
which  either  he  did  not  see  or  pretended 

207 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

not  to  see,  and  it  was  rare  that  his  eyes 
rested  on  any  undergraduate  who  saluted 
him,  unless  the  evasion  would  be  too 
obviously  discourteous.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  would  now  and  again  go  out  of  his 
way  to  hail  and  speak  cordially  to  some 
young  fellow  in  whom  he  felt  a  genuine 
interest. 

Although  I  saw  Walter  Pater  occa- 
sionally after  this  date,  I  did  not  stay  with 
him  again  in  Oxford  until  the  late  spring  of 
1884.  In  the  autumn  of  1882,  I  wrote  to 
him  telling  him  that  I  believed  I  had  dis- 
covered and  recovered  each  article  he  had 
published,  and  had  had  them  separately 
bound  ;  and  at  the  same  time  eagerly  urged 
upon  him  that  the  time  had  come  when  he 
should  no  longer  delay  the  collection  in 
book  form  of  these  essays  on  literature  and 
art.  At  the  date  in  question,  I  was  writing 
that  chapter  in  my  Record  of  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti  which  deals  with  his  prose,  and 
had  made  particular  allusion  to  and  quota- 
tion from  Pater — an  unimportant  fact 
which  I  appear  to  have  considered  worthy 
of  communication  to  him.  On  November 
5,  he  wrote  with  over-generous  words  of 
praise,  as  was  his  kindly  wont  with  young 
writers  (beginning  informally,  and  adding, 

208 


Personal  Rcnmnsccnccs  of  Walter  Pater 

"  I  think  we  have  known  each  other  long 
enough  to  drop  the  '  Mr.'  ")  : — 

"  2  Bradmore  Road,  Oxford, 

"November  5,  1882. 

"...  I  read  your  letter  with  great 
pleasure,  and  thank  you  very  much  for  it. 
Your  friendly  interest  in  my  various  essays 
I  value  highly.  I  have  really  worked  hard 
for  now  many  years  at  these  prose  essays, 
and  it  is  a  real  encouragement  to  hear  such 
good  things  said  of  them  by  the  strongest 
and  most  original  of  young  English  poets. 
It  will  be  a  singular  pleasure  to  me  to  be 
connected,  in  a  sense,  in  your  book  on 
Rossetti,  with  one  I  admired  so  greatly.  I 
wish  the  book  all  the  success  both  the 
subject  and  the  writer  deserve. 

"  You  encourage  me  to  do  what  I  have 
sometimes  thought  of  doing,  when  I  have 
got  on  a  little  further  with  the  work  I  have 
actually  on  hand,  namely,  to  complete  the 
v^arious  series  of  which  the  papers  I  have 
printed  in  the  Fortnightly,  &c.,  are  parts. 
The  list  you  sent  me  is  complete  with  the 
exception  of  an  article  on  Coleridge  in  the 
Westminster  of  January  1866,  with  much 
of  which,  both  as  to  matter  and  manner,  I 
should  now  be  greatly  dissatisfied.  That 
III  2oy  o 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

article  is  concerned  with  S.  T.  C.'s  prose  ; 
but,  corrected,  might  be  put  alongside  of 
the  criticism  on  his  verse  which  I  made  for 
Ward's  English  Poets.  I  can  only  say 
that  should  you  finish  the  paper  you  speak 
of  on  these  essays,  your  critical  approval 
will  be  of  great  service  to  me  with  the 
reading  public. 

"As  to  the  paper  on  Giorgione  which 
I  read  to  you  in  manuscript,  I  find  I  have 
by  me  a  second  copy  of  the  proof,  which  I 
have  revised  and  sent  by  this  post,  and  hope 
you  will  kindly  accept.  It  was  reprinted 
some  time  ago,  when  I  thought  of  collecting 
that  and  other  papers  into  a  volume.  I  am 
pleased  to  hear  that  you  remember  with  so 
much  pleasure  your  visit  to  Oxford,  and 
hope  you  will  come  for  a  longer  stay  in  terrn 
time  early  next  year. 

"  At  the  end  of  this  month  I  hope  to  leave 
for  seven  weeks  in  Italy,  chiefly  at  Rome, 
where  I  have  never  yet  been.  We  went  to 
Cornwall  for  our  summer  holiday ;  but 
though  that  country  is  certainly  very 
singular  and  beautiful,  I  found  there  not  a 
tithe  of  the  stimulus  to  one's  imagination 
which  I  have  sometimes  experienced  in 
quite  unrenowned  places  abroad.  .  .  ." 


210 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

The  copy  of  the  Giorgione  essay  alluded 
to  in  this  letter  was  one  of  several  essays 
printed  at  the  Clarendon  Press  in  Oxford  at 
Pater's  own  cost.  I  asked  him  once  why, 
particularly  as  his  was  so  clear  and  beautiful 
a  handwriting,  he  went  to  this  heavy 
expense  when  he  did  not  mean  to  publish 
(and  in  some  instances  the  type  was  dis- 
tributed after  a  few  copies  had  been  printed)  ; 
to  which  he  replied  that  though  he  could, 
and  did,  revise  often  and  scrupulously  in 
manuscript,  he  could  never  adequately  dis- 
engage his  material  from  the  intellectual 
Hght  in  which  it  had  been  conceived,  until 
he  saw  it  in  the  vivid  and  unsparing  actuahty 
of  type.  This  copy,  besides  its  autograph 
inscription  and  textual  corrections,  bears  the 
circular  stamp  of  the  Clarendon  Press, 
November  12,  1878 ;  so  it  was  printed  three 
years  before  I  heard  it  from  manuscript, 
and  more  than  ten  years  before  it  was 
pubHshed  in  book  form  along  with  other 
papers.  As  its  pagination  is  from  page 
157  to  page  184,  its  author  must  have  had 
quite  a  large  volume  printed  at  the  Clarendon 
Press. 

Much  as  I  value  this  early  Giorgione  copy, 
and  The  Child  of  the  House,  and  each  of  the 
books  given  me  on  pubHcation,   my  chief 

211 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

treasure  is  the  bound  c.opy  of  the  proofs  of 
Marius  the  Epicurean.  I  had  these  proofs 
for  some  weeks  before  pubHcation,  and  so 
had  the  additional  pleasure  of  a  thorough 
famiharity  with  one  of  the  finest,  and 
perhaps  the  most  distinctive  of  the  prose 
works  of  the  Victorian  era,  before  the  less 
fortunate  public  knew  anything  of  it. 
Marius  had  been  begun,  and  in  part  written, 
long  before  Walter  Pater  went  to  Rome,  in 
1882,  for  the  first  time  ;  but  it  was  not  till 
the  summer  of  1883  that  he  wrote  it  as  it 
now  stands — wrote  and  rewrote,  with  in- 
(finite  loving  care  for  every  idea,  for  every 
phrase,  for  each  sentence,  each  epithet,  each 
little  word  or  mark  of  punctuation. 

One  of  the  earliest  reviews  of  Marius  the 
Epicurean  was  that  which  appeared  in  The 
Athencemn  as  the  leading  article,  some  seven 
to  eight  columns  in  length.  Besides  this, 
I  wrote  also  a  longer  article  upon  the  book 
in  the  now  defunct  magazine,  Time.  My 
AthencBum  review  appeared  on  the  last  day 
of  February,  and  on  March  i  Pater  wrote  as 
follows  : — 

"  2  Bradmore  Road,  Oxford. 

"...  I  have  read  your  article  in  The 
AthencBum  with  very  real  pleasure  ;    feeling 

213 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

criticism  at  once  so  independent  and  so 
sympathetic  to  be  a  reward  for  all  the  long 
labours  the  book  has  cost  me.  You  seem 
to  me  to  have  struck  a  note  of  criticism 
not  merely  pleasant,  but  judicious  ;  and 
there  are  one  or  two  important  points — 
literary  ones — on  which  you  have  said 
precisely  what  I  should  have  wished,  and 
thought  it  important  for  me  to  have  said. 
I  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  friendly 
work;  also  for  your  letter  [about  Marius], 
and  the  other  article,  which  I  shall  look 
forward  to,  and  greatly  value.  I  was  much 
pleased  also,  that  Mrs.  Sharp  had  been  so 
much  interested  in  my  writing.  It  is  always 
a  sign  to  me  that  I  have  to  some  extent 
succeeded  in  my  literary  aim  when  I  gain 
the  approval  of  accomplished  women. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  and  feel  it  a  great  com- 
pliment, to  have  Marius  translated  into 
German,  on  whatever  terms  your  friend 
Hkes  ;  provided  of  course,  that  Macmillan 
approves.  I  will  ask  him  his  \aews  on  this 
point. 

"  As  regards  the  ethical  drift  of  Marius,  I 
should  hke  to  talk  to  you,  if  you  were  here. 
I  did  mean  it  to  be  more  anti-Epicurean 
than  it  has  struck  you  as  being.  In  one 
way,   however,   I   am  glad   that  you   have 

213 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

mistaken  me  a  little  on  this  point,  as  I  had 
some  fears  that  I  might  seem  to  be  pleading 
for  a  formal  thesis  of  '  parti  pris.'  Be 
assured  how  cheering  your  praise — praise 
from  so  genuine  and  accomplished  a  fellow- 
workman — has  been  to  me.  Such  recogni- 
tion is  especially  a  help  to  one  whose  work 
is  so  exclusively  personal  and  solitary  as 
the  kind  of  literary  work  which  I  feel  I 
can  do  best  must  be.  .  .  ." 

From  a  later  passage  in  this  letter — 
ultimately  of  so  purely  personal  an  interest 
that  its  reproduction  here  would  be  un- 
warrantable— it  is  evident  that  Pater  had 
carefully  read  through  the  book  after  its 
publication,  to  find  his  fastidious  taste 
offended  by  one  or  two  little  flaws.  For, 
not  content  with  the  revised  proofs  he  had 
given  me,  he  wrote,  "  I  have  told  the  Mac- 
millans  to  send  you  a  properly  bound  copy 
of  Marius,  with  only  a  few  misprints," 

When  I  went  to  stay  with  him  in  the  late 
spring  of  1884,  when  Oxford  was  looking 
its  loveliest,  we  had  many  long  talks  about 
Marius  and  the  new  Cyrenaicism,  and  on  all 
implied  in  what  it  has  become  the  vogue  to 
call  the  new  Hedonism. 

More  and  more   Walter  Pater  sought   a 

214 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

rarer  atmosphere  of  beauty — outward 
beauty,  and  the  beauty  of  the  inner  Hfe.  >s 
His  ideals  of  conduct  were  Spartan  rather 
than  what  in  so  loosely  called  Epicurean  ; 
austerity  in  clear,  lucid,  wind-swept  thought ; 
austerity  in  the  expression  of  that  thought, 
even  when  wrought  by  it  to  the  white  heat 
of  creative  emotion,  but  an  austerity  that 
came  from  the  reserve  force  of  perfect  and 
scrupulous  mastery,  and  from  no  timidity 
or  coldness  or  sterility  of  deep  feeling  ;  and 
austerity  in  life. 

How  well  I  remember  one  evening  in  the 
meadows  by  the  Cherwell  !  It  was  a  still, 
golden  sunset.  Already  the  dew  had  begun 
to  fall,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  the 
almost  too  poignant  fragrance  of  the 
meadowsweet.  I  had  made  a  remark  about 
the  way  some  people  were  haunted  by 
dream  fragrances,  and  instanced  queen-of 
the-meadow,  as  we  call  it  in  Scotland,  in  my 
own  case.  Pater  replied  that  certain  flowers 
affected  his  imagination  so  keenly  that  he 
could  not  smell  them  with  pleasure  ;  and 
that  while  the  white  jonquil,  the  gardenia, 
and  the  syringa  actually  gave  him  pain,  the 
meadowsweet  generally  gave  him  a  sudden 
fugitive  sense  of  distant  pastures,  and 
twilit  eves,  and  remote  scattered  hamlets. 

215 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

"On  an  evening  like  this,"  he  added, 
"  there  is  too  much  of  it.  It  is  the  fault 
of  nature  in  England  that  she  runs  too 
much  to  excess.  Well,  after  all,  that  is  a 
foolish  thing  to  say.  There  is  always  some- 
thing supremely  certain  about  nature's 
waywardness." 

"  You  remember  Blake — '  The  road  of 
excess  leads  to  the  palace  of  wisdom  '  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  a  notable  saying,  and,  like 
most  kindred  sayings,  is  probably  half  true, 
though  I  doubt  if  in  this  instance  more  than 
partially,  or  only  very  occasionally  true. 
Talking  of  Blake,  I  never  repeat  to  myself, 
without  a  strange  and  almost  terrifying 
sensation  of  isolation  and  long  weariness, 
that  couplet  of  his  : 

Ah,  sunfloivev,  weary  of  iimr, 
Who  coitntest  the  steps  of  the  sun.*' 

This  led  to  my  asking  him  what  were 
his  favourite  intimate  passages.  I  have 
forgotten,  or  do  not  remember  with  sufficient 
exactness  to  record  them,  what  he  gave  ; 
though  I  recollect  that  he  placed  foremost 
that  noble  maxim  from  Plato  :  "  Hojiour  the 
soul;  for  each  man's  soul  changes,  according 
to  the  nature  of  his  deeds,  for  better  or  worse." 

Every  great  writer,  he  said,  had  service- 

216 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

able  apothegms  on  the  conduct  of  art  as  well 
as  the  conduct  of  life.  At  tliat  time  he 
was  re-reading  some  of  the  chief  books  of 
two  great  novelists,  more  radically  than 
merely  racially  distinct,  Balzac  and  George 
Eliot.  I  asked  which  writer  he  found  the 
more  stimulating,  the  more  suggestive,  the 
more  interesting.  Balzac,  he  rephed,  he 
found  more  interesting,  though  he  thought 
George  Eliot  the  more  suggestive.  "  But 
of  neither  would  I  speak  as  stimulating." 
"  Balzac,"  he  resumed,  "  is  full  of  good 
things,  things  well  said  and  worth  daily  re- 
membrance, as  for  example  this  :  '  Le 
travail  constant  est  la  loi  de  I'art  comme 
celle  de  la  vie.'  " 

"  A  Httle  while  ago  you  said,"  I  inter- 
polated, "  that  Keats  was  unquestionably 
right  when  he  wrote  that  Invention  was  the 
pole-star  of  Poetry.  Would  you  say  the 
same  in  the  instance  of  every  other  art  ?  " 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt  ;  only  one  must 
be  sure  one  knows  exactly  what  one  means 
by  Invention.  An  admirable  French  critic 
has  said  this  for  us  :  '  L'Invention,  quahte 
premiere  et  base  de  toutes  les  autres,  dans 
les  operations  des  beaux-arts.'  And  by  the 
way,  bear  this,  from  the  same  source,  ever  in 
mind  :    '  II  y  a  dans  la  composition  deux 

217 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

ecueils  a  eviter,  le  trop  peu  d'art,  et  le  trop 
d'art.'  " 

It  was  on  this  occasion,  also,  I  remember, 
that,  on  my  asking  him  what  he,  personally, 
considered  the  most  memorable  passage  in 
George  Eliot,  he  surprised  me  by  saying, 
after  a  brief  while  for  reflection,  that  it  was 
the  remark  put  into  Piero  di  Cosimo's 
mouth,  in  Romola  :  "  The  only  passionate 
life  is  in  form  and  colour." 

His  interest  in  Piero  di  Cosimo,  and 
Bazzi,  and  a  few  other  rare  and  distinctive 
figures  of  mediaeval  Italy,  was,  I  may  add, 
singularly  keen.  There  were  two  strange- 
nesses, if  I  may  use  the  word,  which  always 
appealed  to  him  strongly  :  the  strangeness 
that  lies  in  familiarity,  and  the  strangeness 
of  the  unusual,  the  remote,  the  mysterious, 
the  wild.  He  loved  the  vicarious  life.  His 
own  was  serenely  quiet  and  uneventful,  but 
he  thrilled  with  excitement  when  a  foreign 
element,  of  altogether  alien  circumstance, 
entered  it,  whether  this  intruder  was  a 
living  person  or  only  a  mental  actuality. 
He  was  like  those  early  Italian  or  Flemish 
painters  of  whom  he  speaks  in  one  of  his 
essays,  "  who,  just  because  their  minds  were 
full  of  heavenly  visions,  passed,  some  of 
them,  the  better  part  of  sixty  years  in  quiet, 

218 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

systematic  industry."  As  he  says  of  Words- 
worth, "  there  was  in  his  own  character  a 
certain  contentment,  a  sort  of  rehgious 
placidity,  seldom  found  united  with  a 
sensibility  like  his.  .  ,  .  His  life  is  not 
divided  by  profoundly  felt  incidents  ;  its 
changes  are  almost  wholly  inward,  and  it 
falls  into  broad,  untroubled  spaces.  This 
placid  life  matured  in  him  an  unusual,  innate 
sensibility  to  natural  sights  and  sounds,  the 
flower  and  its  shadow  on  the  stone,  the 
cuckoo  and  its  echo." 

It  is  his  apprehension  of,  his  insight  into,  ,j^>y 
this  subtle,  profoundly  intimate  second-life  ^ 
in  every  manifestation  of  human  life  and 
nature,  of  the  warm  shadow  as  well  as  of  the 
sunlit  flower,  of  the  wandering  voice  as  well 
as  of  the  spring  harbinger,  that  is  one  secret 
of  the  immediate  appeal  of  Walter  Pater's 
work  to  all  who  not  only  love  what  is 
beautiful,  wheresoever  and  howsoever  em- 
bodied, but  also,  as  a  Celtic  saying  has 
it,  "  look  at  the  thing  that  is  behind  the 
thing."  ! 

An    apprehension,    an    insight    in    some 
degree   akin,    must   be   in    the    reader  who 
would  understand  Walter  Pater  the  man  as 
well  as  Walter  Pater  the  writer  and  thinker.; 
There  are  few  more  autobiographical  writers, 

219 


«i. 


f 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

though  almost  nowhere  does  he  openly  limn 
autobiographical  details.     Only  those  lovers 
of  his  work  who  have  read,  and  read  closely, 
lovingly,  and  intimately,  all  he  has  written, 
can   understand   the    man.     He   is   one    of 
those  authors  of  whom  there  can  never  be 
any    biography    away    from    his    writings. 
The  real  man  is  a  very  different  one  from 
the  Mr.  Rose  of  The    New    Republic,  from 
"  the  mere  conjurer  of  words  and  phrases" 
of  Mr.   Freeman,   from   "  the   demoralising 
moraliser  "    of   the   late   Master   of   Balliol, 
from  "  the  preacher  of  a  remote  and  exclusive 
aestheticism  "  of  those  who  seldom  read  and 
never  understood    him,   from  the  sophisti- 
cated,   cold,    and   humanly   indifferent   ex- 
ponent or  advocate  of  "  art  for  art's  sake 
alone."     In  no  writer  of  our  time  is  there 
more    tenderness  ;     more    loving    heed    of 
human  struggle,   aspiration,   failure,  heroic 
effort,   high   achievement  ;    more   profound 
understanding  of  "  the  thing  that  is  behind 
the  thing  ;  "   above  all,  a  keener,  a  more 
alive,    a    more    swift    and    comprehensive 
sympathy.     If  those  who  have  read  one  or 
two  of  the  purely  art  essays  only  will  take 
up  the  paper  on  Charles  Lamb  or  the  deeply 
significant  and  penetrative  study  of  Words- 
worth  (surely  the  most  genuinely  critical, 

220 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

the  most  sympathetic  and  rightly  under- 
standing, of  all  estimates  of  Wordsworth), 
they  will  speedily  hear  the  heartbeat  of  one 
who  was  a  man  as  other  clean-hearted,  clean- 
minded,  clean-living  men  are,  and  a  writer 
of  supreme  distinction  only  "  by  grace  of 
God." 

Though  there  are  few  so  direct  auto- 
biographical indications  as  may  be  found 
in  The  Child  of  the  House  (essentially,  and 
to  some  extent  in  actual  detail,  a  record  of 
the  author's  child-life),  or  as  the  statement 
in  the  Lamb  essay  that  it  was  in  a  wood  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  London  that,  as  a 
child,  he  heard  the  cuckoo  for  the  first  time, 
the  inner  life  of  Walter  Pater  is  written 
throughout  each  of  his  books,  woven  "  like 
gold  thread  "  through  almost  every  page, 
though  perhaps  most  closely  and  revealingly 
in  Marius  the  Epicurean.  That  Mariiis 
is  largely  himself  would  be  indubitable  even 
were  there  no  personal  testimony  to  support 
the  evidence.  I  remember,  when  he  read 
Marius  to  me  in  manuscript,  that  the 
passage  at  page  136  (first  edition),  beginning, 
"  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  his  care  for  poetry 
had  passed  away  ...  to  be  replaced  by 
the  literature  of  thought,"  was  admitted  by 
him  to  be — as  again  at  pages  103,  169,  and 

221 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

elsewhere — directly  autobiographical.  This 
is  the  passage  wherein  occur  two  phrases 
now  famous  :  "a  severe  intellectual  medita- 
tion, the  salt  of  poetry,"  and  "  spontaneous 
surrender  to  the  dominion  of  the  outward 
impressions."  He  had  the  same  horror  of 
snakes  and  creeping  things  of  which  his 
young  Epicurean  was  so  painfully  conscious. 
I  remember  one  occasion  when,  at  Oxford, 
a  small  party  of  us  had  gone  down-stream, 
to  reach  a  wood  of  which  Pater  was  fond  in 
the  first  hot  days  of  late  spring.  He  was 
walking  with  my  wife,  when  suddenly  she 
saw  him  start,  grow  paler  than  his  wont, 
and  abruptly  hurry  forward  with  averted 
head.  The  cause  of  this  perturbation  was 
that,  to  the  right  of  the  pathway,  a  large 
"  earth  adder,"  or  "  slow- worm,"  lay  dead 
or  dying.  This  aversion  was  excited  even 
by  inanimate  representations  of  snakes. 
Once,  when  he  was  visiting  us  in  London; 
his  gaze  was  attracted  by  the  gleaming  of 
the  lampHght  upon  a  circular  ornament  my 
wife  wore  round  her  neck.  It  was  a  flexible 
silver  serpent,  made  of  over  a  thousand 
little  silver  scales,  the  work  of  a  Florentine 
mechanic,  which  I  had  brought  home  from 
Italy.  In  response  to  his  inquiry,  she  un- 
loosed it  and  handed  it  to  him  ;    but  as  she 

222 


Personal  Reminiscences  of  Walter  Pater 

did  so,  it  writhed  about  her  arm  as  though 
alive.  Pater  drew  back,  startled,  nor  would 
he  touch  or  look  at  it,  beautiful  as  the 
exquisitely  minute  workmanship  was  ;  and 
indeed,  so  uneasy  was  he,  so  evidently  per- 
turbed that  she  should  wear  anything  so 
"  barbaric,"  that,  laughingly,  she  agreed  not 
to  replace  it,  but  safely  to  lock  it  up  in  its 
morocco  case  again. 

Keenly,  too,  he  had  that  vague  dread  of 
impending  evil  which  perturbed  Marius 
when,  on  his  way  to  Rome,  he  climbed  the 
gloomy,  precipitous  slopes  of  Urbs-Vetus  ; 
that  "  sense  of  some  unexplored  evil  ever 
dogging  his  footsteps  "  (page  24)  ;  that 
"  recurrent  sense  of  some  .obscure  danger 
beyond  the  mere  danger  of  death — vaguer 
than  that,  and  by  so  much  the  more  terrible  " 
(page  124)  ;  that  dread  of  which  he  writes 
(page  178),  "  His  elaborate  philosophy  had 
not  put  beneath  his  feet  the  terror  of  mere 
bodily  evil,  much  less  of  '  inexorable  fate 
and  the  noise  of  greedy  Acheron.'  "  He  had 
a  great  dislike  of  walking  along  the  base 
of  dark  and  rugged  slopes,  or  beneath  any 
impendent  rock.  When,  a  few  years  ago, 
he  came  to  reside  for  the  most  part  in 
London,  he  hoped  that  this  apprehension 
would  depart,  or  never  be  evoked.     For  a 

223 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

time,  London  gave  him  a  fresh  and  pleasant 
stimukis  ;  but  later,  it  began  to  weary,  to 
perturb,  and  at  last  to  allure  him  into  even 
deeper  despondencies  than  his  wont.  It 
was  with  a  welcome  sense  of  home-coming 
that,  not  long  ago,  he  returned  to  Oxford  as 
his  permanent  place  of  abode.  But  of  his 
gloom,  so  far  as  his  literary  work  is  affected 
by  it,  the  aptest  thing  that  can  be  said  is  a 
passage  in  his  own  essay  on  Charles  Lamb  : 
"  The  gloom  is  always  there,  though  re- 
strained always  in  expression,  and  not 
always  realised  either  for  himself  or  his 
readers  ;  and  it  gives  to  those  lighter 
matters  on  the  surface  of  life  and  literature, 
among  which  he  for  the  most  part  moved, 
a  wonderful  play  of  expression,  as  if  at  any 
moment  these  light  words  and  fancies  might 
pierce  very  far  into  the  deeper  hearts  of 
things." 

Aside  from  Marius  the  Epicurean,  there 
is  a  radical  mistake  on  the  part  of  those 
who  affirm  that  Pater  is,  after  all,  but  a 
subtle  and  seductive  writer  on  art  ;  meaning 
the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture.  It  is 
true  that,  from  his  first  able  essay,  that  on 
Winckelmann,  to  those  on  The  School  of 
Giorgione  and  The  Marbles  of  Mgina,  he  is 
the    profoundest,    and   generally   the    most 

224 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

trustworthy  of  art  critics  ;  but — and  again, 
apart  from  the  creative  quahty  informing 
each  of  these  essays,  making  them  not  only 
interpretations,  but  works  of  art — he  is,  of 
course,  much  more  than  this.  His  volume 
of  studies  of  contemporary  poetry  and  prose, 
and  kindred  themes,  is  alone  sufficient  to 
base  an  enduring  reputation  upon. 

As  of  the  brilliant  Flavian  who  so  won  the 
heart  of  Marius  when  he  left  sea-girt  Luna 
for  Pisa,  we  might  say  of  Walter  Pater  : 
"  What  care  for  style  !  What  patience  of 
execution  !  Wliat  research  for  the  signifi- 
cant tones  of  ancient  idiom — sonantia  verba 
et  antiqua  !  What  stately  and  regular  word- 
building, — gravis  et  decora  constructio !  " 
But,  invariably,  we  have  to  note  also  that 
ever  "  the  happy  phrase  of  sentence  is  really 
modelled  upon  a  cleanly  finished  structure 
of  scrupulous  thought." 

Nothing  irritated  Pater  more  than  to 
be  called  a  mere  stylist.  He  was  a  thinker 
first,  and  a  rare  and  distinguished  stylist 
by  virtue  of  his  thought  ;  for,  after  all, 
style  is  simply  the  rainbow  light  created  by 
the  thought,  and  is  pure,  transparent, 
precise,  and  beautiful,  or  is  intermittent, 
incoherent,  crudely  interfused,  even  as  is 
the  thought. 

Ill  225  p 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

Of  his  more  directly  or  frankly  imagina- 
tive work,  his  Imaginary  Portraits,  from  the 
early  Child  oj  the  House  to  the  latest,  the 
narrative  of  Emuald  Uthwart,  of  Gaston  de 
Latour,  of  Brother  Apollyon,  I  have  not  now 
space  to  speak,  nor  indeed  is  this  the 
occasion.  But  once  again  I  must  say  that 
those  who  would  know  Walter  Pater  must 
read  all  he  has  written.  In  that  serene, 
quiet,  austere,  yet  passionate  nature  of  his, 
so  eminently  Teutonic,  so  distinctively 
northern,  there  was,  strange  to  say,  a  strain 
of  Latin  savagery.  It  found  startling  ex- 
pression in  the  bloody  tragedy  of  the 
sacrifice  of  Denys  I'Auxerrois,  and,  in  his 
latest  published  writing,  in  the  strange  and 
terrifying  death  of  the  boy  Hyacinth. 

Let  me,  rather,  end  this  article — so  slight 
and  inadequate,  I  am  painfully  aware — 
with  two  noble  passages,  more  truly  charac- 
teristic of  Walter  Pater  than  any  of  the 
generally  perverted  art-for-art's-sake  dicta 
so  often  quoted  from  his  earlier  writings, 
severed  from  their  illuminating  context. 
The  first  is  that  which  concludes  the  earliest 
of  his  critical  studies,  that  on  Winckelmann  : 

"  And  what  does  the  spirit  need  in  the 
face  of  modern  life  ?  The  sense  of  freedom. 
That  naive,  rough  sense  of  freedom  which 
supposes  man's  will  to  be  limited,  if  at  all, 

226 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

only  by  a  will  stronger  than  his,  he  can 
never    have    again.  .  .  .  The    chief    factor 
in  the  thoughts  of  the  modern  mind  con- 
cerning   itself    is    the    intricacy,    the    uni- 
versality, of  natural  law,  even  in  the  moral 
order.     For  us,  necessity  is  not,  as  of  old,  a 
sort  of  mythological  personage  without  us, 
with   whom   we   can   do   warfare  ;    it  is   a 
magic  web,  woven  through  and  through  us, 
like  that  magnetic  system  of  which  modern 
science  speaks,  penetrating  us  with  a  net- 
work subtler  than  our  subtlest  nerves,  yet 
bearing  in  it  the  central  forces  of  the  world. 
Can  art  represent  men  and  women  in  these 
bewildering  toils  so  as  to  give  the  spirit  at 
least  an  equivalent  for  the  sense  of  free- 
dom ?  .  .  .  Natural    laws    we    shall    never 
modify,  embarrass  us  as  they  may  ;    but 
there  is  still  something  in  the  nobler  or  less 
noble  attitude  with  which  we  watch  their 
fatal    combinations.     In    the    romances    of 
Goethe  and  Victor  Hugo,  in  some  excellent 
work  done   after  them,   this  entanglement, 
this   network   of   law,   becomes   the   tragic 
situation  in  which  certain  groups  of  noble 
men  and  women  work  out  for  themselves 
a   supreme    denouement.     Who,    if   he    saw 
through  all,  would  fret  against  the  chain 
of  circumstance  which  endows  one  at  the 
end  with  those  great  experiences  ?  " 

227 


Personal  Reminiscences  oj  Walter  Pater 

As  this  is  from  the  first,  so  let  the  second 
be  from  the  last  of  those  memorable  critical 
studies,  that  on  Style,  written  in  1888  : 

"It  is  on  the  quality  of  the  matter  it 
informs  or  controls,  its  compass,  its  variety, 
its  alliance  to  great  ends  or  the  depth  of  the 
note  of  revolt,  or  the  largeness  of  hope  in  it, 
that  the  greatness  of  literary  art  depends, 
as  The  Divine  Comedy,  Paradise  Lost,  Les 
Miserables,  the  English  Bible,  are  great  art. 
Given  the  conditions  I  have  tried  to  explain 
as  constituting  good  art  :  then,  if  it  be 
devoted  further  to  the  increase  of  men's 
happiness,  to  the  redemption  of  the  op- 
pressed or  the  enlargement  of  our  sym- 
pathies with  each  other,  or  to  such  present- 
ment of  new  or  old  truth  about  ourselves 
and  our  relation  to  the  world  as  may  ennoble 
and  fortify  us  in  our  sojourn  here,  or  im- 
mediately, as  with  Dante,  to  the  glory  of 
God,  it  will  be  also  great  art  ;  if,  over  and 
above  those  qualities  I  summed  up  as  mind 
and  soul, — that  colour  and  mystic  perfume, 
and  that  reasonable  structure — it  has  some- 
thing of  the  soul  of  humanity  in  it,  and 
finds  its  logical,  its  architectural  place  in 
the  great  structure  of  human  life." 

1894. 

228 


"  MARIUS  THE  EPICUREAN  " 

The  last  words  of  Gautama-Buddha,  when, 
sitting  under  the  Sal-tree,  he  prepared  for  his 
imminent  advent  into  Nirvana,  were,  "  Be- 
ware of  the  illusions  of  matter."  Marius,  in 
whose  imaginary  biography  Walter  Pater 
has  embodied  all  that  is  highest  and  finest 
in  Epicureanism,  would  recognise  these  so- 
called  illusions  as  the  only  criteria  of  truth, 
rendering  himself  up,  as  he  strove  from  the 
first  to  do,  in  a  complete  surrender  "  to  the 
dominion  of  outward  impressions." 

It  is  the  narration  of  the  sensations  and 
ideas  of  a  late  disciple  of  the  son  of  Neocles, 
of  one  whose  life  is  cast  in  that  fascinating 
period  of  Roman  history  when  Paganism 
really  died  under  the  philosophically  uni- 
versal toleration  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  that 
Pater  has  set  himself  to  accomplish  ;  and 
it  is  only  giving  expression  to  a  palpable 
truth  to  say  that  he  has  fulfilled  his  purpose 
with  a  sympathetic  thoroughness  which 
could  be  equalled  by  no  living  writer.  On 
its  own  merits  this  work  would  challenge 

229 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

widespread  attention,  doubly  so  from  the 
fact  that  its  author  (as  it  seems  to  the 
writer  )  is  the  chief  living  exponent  of  the 
really  essential  part  of  that  doctrine  which 
close  upon  twenty-two  centuries  ago,  amid 
the  restful  pleasures  of  his  Athenian  garden, 
Epicurus  promulgated  to  the  listening  ears 
of  Hermarchus,  his  future  successor,  and  of 
Metrodorus,  that  beloved  and  faithful  dis- 
ciple concerning  whose  children  the  last 
recorded  utterances  of  the  Gargettian  sage 
were  spoken  to  Idomeneus,  "  If  you  would 
prove  yourself  worthy,  take  care  of  the 
children  of  Metrodorus." 

Certainly,  ardent  discipleship  did  not  pass 
away  with  the  decease  of  the  famous  philoso- 
pher, or  even  with  the  natural  end  of  Her- 
marchus, Colotes,  Philodemus,  and  others 
little  removed  from  the  master  in  point  of 
years.  As  an  actually  vital  philosophic 
system  the  teaching  of  Epicurus  was  ac- 
cepted, though  in  gradually  attenuating 
degree,  for  over  six  hundred  years,  finding, 
as  it  did,  devoted  adherents  even  so  late  as 
in  the  third  century  after  Christ.  At  long 
intervals,  and  in  diverse  countries,  it  ever 
and  again  appears  as  if  the  spirit  of  the 
founder  of  the  philosophy  of  Sensation 
found  rebirth — as  in   France   midway   and 

230 


"  Marius  the  E-picurean  " 

during  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  when  Gassendi,  the  rival  of  Des- 
cartes, proved  anew  indisputably  in  his 
PhilosophicB  Epicuri  Syntagma  the  possi- 
bilit}^  of  uniting  Epicurean  principles  with 
a  high  code  of  morals ;  when  La  Roche- 
foucauld published  his  philosophic  maxims 
for  the  conduct  of  life,  and  when  St.  Evre- 
mond  lived  freely  and  wrote  worthily  ;  or, 
again,  as  in  the  France  of  a  later  day,  when 
Helvetius  preached  his  doctrine  of  Sensation 
(Sensibilite)  as  the  means  of  knowledge,  and 
of  self-satisfaction  as  the  end  of  life,  having 
his  own  philosophic  calm  put  to  the  test 
by  the  public  burning  of  his  great  work  De 
r Esprit  ;  as  in  England  by  Jeremy  Bentham 
and  one  or  two  others,  and  lastly,  and  most 
effectively  of  all  by  Walter  Pater.* 

*  With  Pater's  name  should  be  coupled  that 
of  Richard  Jefferies — a  true  Epicurean  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  term,  as  may  be  gathered  from 
the  following  words,  taken  from  one  of  Mr. 
Jefferies'  most  characteristic  productions  :  "  The 
hours  when  the  mind  is  absorbed  by  beauty  are 
the  only  hours  when  we  really  live,  so  that  the 
longer  we  can  stay  among  these  things,  so  much 
the  more  is  snatched  from  inevitable  time.  .  .  . 
These  are  the  only  hours  that  are  not  wasted — 
these  hours  that  absorb  the  soul  and  fill  it  with 
beauty.  This  is  real  life,  and  all  else  is  illusion, 
or  mere  endurance. 

231 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

It  is  not  the  present  purpose  of  the  writer 
to  discuss  the  question  of  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  the  Epicurean  philosophy  ;  he 
will  content  himself  with  saying  that  never 
has  it  been  represented  with  greater  fidelity 
in  its  weakness  as  in  its  strength,  than  in 
these  two  volumes  by  Walter  Pater,  where 
it  may  be  apprehended  in  as  enticing  an 
aspect  as  Cicero  (in  reality  a  bitter  opponent 
to  Epicureanism)  shows  it  in  the  first  book 
of  his  De  Finihus.  The  Epicureanism  of 
Marius  is  that  of  the  master,  more  than  that 
of  Aristippus  and  the  Cj'renaics,  still  more 
than  that  of  Timocrates  *  and  other  apos- 
tates from  the  pure  teachings  of  the  founder. 
It  may  or  may  not  be  the  case,  as  Mr.  Lecky 
says,  that  Epicureanism,  while  logically 
compatible  with  a  very  high  degree  of  virtue, 
has  a  practical  tendency  towards  vice  ;  but 
it  is  undeniably  the  case  that  men  of  fine 
nature  may  live  up  to  and  within  its  central 
doctrine  and  its  limitations  and  yet  suffer 
no  deterioration  of  nature.  The  question 
is  not  does  such  a  nature  deteriorate,  but 
rather  does  it  attain  to  anything  like  the  same 
spiritual  development  which  it  might  by  a 
sterner,  a  less  select  philosophy  of  life  have 

*  Diogenes  Laevtius,  Bk.  x. 
232 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

otherwise  reached  ?  But  a  "  Cyrenaic  " 
without  flaw  was  Marius.  Epicurus,  at  the 
end  of  one  of  his  definitions  of  his  scheme 
of  life,  adds  concerning  his  ideal  man  "  that 
sometimes  he  will  die  for  his  friend."  In 
this  also,  by  no  means  characteristic  of 
the  Epicureans  as  a  body,  does  Marius 
approach  his  ideal  prototype,  for  he  ulti- 
mately meets  the  solution  to  his  many 
questionings  through  an  act  of  generous 
self-sacrifice. 

Marius  is  a  true  Hedonist,  and,  accord- 
ingly, he  indulges  in  no  vain  pursuit  of 
pleasure.  For,  after  all,  the  true  Hedonism 
is  neither  more  nor  less  than  cultured  re- 
ceptivity, openness  to  all  thrilling  or  pleasant 
associations,  avoidance  of  all  that  is  mean 
and  painful.  This  Hedonism,  Epicureanism, 
or  by  whatever  name  it  may  be  called,  does 
not  prevent  or  seek  to  prevent  due  attention 
to  and  performance  of  the  ordinary  daily 
duties  of  life  ;  but  it  would  teach  us,  where 
possible,  to  throw  around  these  some 
glamour  of  beauty  or  significance,  or  at  any 
rate  not  to  let  them  interfere  with  our 
serenity  more  than  we  can  avoid.  For,  as 
Epicurus  himself  has  declared,  pleasure,  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  the 

233 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

end  of  a  wise  man's  life,  but  health,  ease, 
serenity  {vy'uia,anvovLa,  arapa^la).  Concerning 
those  minor  observances  of  daily  life,  it 
should  be  with  us  as  it  was  with  Marius : 
"  Those  simple  gifts,  like  other  objects 
equally  trivial — ^bread,  oil,  wine,  milk — had 
regained  for  him,  by  their  use  in  such 
religious  service,  that  poetic  and,  as  it  were, 
moral  significance  which  surely  belongs  to  all 
the  means  of  our  daily  life,  could  we  but 
break  through  the  veil  of  our  familiarity 
with  things  by  no  means  vulgar  in  them- 
selves." And  again  :  "  He  was  acquiring 
what  it  is  ever  the  chief  function  of 
all  higher  education  to  teach  —  a  system 
or  art,  namely,  of  so  relieving  the  ideal 
or  poetic  traits,  the  elements  of  distinc- 
tion, in  our  everyday  life,  of  so  ex- 
clusively living  in  them,  that  the  un- 
adorned remainder  of  it,  the  mere  drift 
and  debris  of  life,  becomes  as  though  it 
were  not." 

While  to  the  question.  What  is  the 
criterion  of  truth  ?  Epicurus  replies  Sensa- 
tion, aiarOnarii,  Walter  Pater  would  add  that 
for  the  ideal  life  one  must  possess  two 
qualities,  serenity  of  spirit  and  contempla- 
tive insight.  The  value  of  finely  balanced 
receptivity    to    Sensation    cannot    well    be 

234 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

over-estimated :  at  its  highest  development 
it  will  prevent  vain  regret  and  vague  anti- 
cipation— it  will  serve  as  the  most  effectual 
protest  against  the  mere  narrow  concep- 
tion of  means  and  ends  in  life.  As  Walter 
Pater  says,  in  his  fine  essay  on  Words- 
worth, "the  higher  morality  might 
well  endeavour  rather  to  draw  men's 
attention  from  the  conception  of  means 
and  ends  in  life  altogether " — and  again, 
against  the  predominance  of  machinery 
in  life  {i.e.,  against  the  conception  of 
means  and  ends  as  a  comprehensive  con- 
ception of  life  as  a  whole)  all  that  is 
really  great  in  art  and  poetry  is  a  continual 
protest. 

To  witness  with  appropriate  emotion  the 
great  spectacle  of  life,  life  in  its  widest  and 
most  comprehensive  significance,  is,  says 
Walter  Pater,  in  the  essay  already  alluded 
to,  the  aim  of  all  culture.  Moreover,  "  that 
the  end  of  life  is  not  action,  but  contem- 
plation, being  as  distinct  from  doing,  a 
certain  disposition  of  the  mind,  is  in  some 
shape  or  other  the  principle  of  all  the  higher 
morality.  In  poetry,  as  in  art,  if  you  enter 
into  their  true  spirit  at  all,  you  touch  this 
principle  in  part ;  these,  by  their  very 
sterility,   are  a  type  of  beholding  for  the 

235 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

mere  joy  of  beholding.  To  treat  life  in  the 
spirit  of  art  is  to  make  life  a  thing  in 
which  means  and  ends  are  identified.  This, 
then,  is  the  true  moral  significance  of  art 
and  poetry,  .  .  .  impassioned  contempla- 
tion." 

Two  extracts  from  Marius  the  Epicurean 
will  further  serve  to  illustrate  the  author's 
position  ; 

To  keep  the  eye  clear  by  a  sort  of  exquisite 
personal  alacrity  and  cleanliness,  extending  even 
to  his  dwelling-place  ;  to  discriminate,  ever  more 
and  more  exactly,  select  form  and  colour  in 
things  from  what  was  less  select  ;  to  meditate 
much  on  beautiful  visible  objects,  on  objects  more 
especially  connected  with  the  period  of  youth — on 
children  at  play  in  the  morning,  the  trees  in  early 
spring,  on  young  animals,  on  the  fashions  and 
amusements  of  young  men  ;  to  keep  ever  by  him 
if  it  were  but  a  single  choice  flower,  a  graceful 
animal  or  sea-shell,  as  a  token  and  representative 
of  the  whole  kingdom  of  such  things  ;  to  avoid 
jealously,  on  his  way  through  the  world,  every- 
thing repugnant  to  sight  ;  and,  should  any  cir- 
cumstance tempt  him  to  a  general  converse  in  the 
range  of  such  objects,  to  disentangle  himself  from 
that  circumstance  at  any  cost  of  place,  money,  or 
opportunity  ;  such  were,  in  brief  outline,  the 
duties  recognised,  the  rights  demanded,  in  this 
new  formula  of  life.  .  .  .  Not  pleasure,  but 
fulness,  completeness  of  life  generally,  was  the 
practical  idea  to  which  this  anti-metaphysical 
metaphysic  really  pointed.     And  towards  such  a 

236 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

full  or  complete  life,  a  life  of  various  yet  select 
sensation,  the  most  direct  and  effective  auxiliary 
must  be,  in  a  word,  insight.  Liberty  of  soul, 
freedom  from  all  the  partial  and  misreprcsentative 
doctrine  which  does  but  relieve  one  element  in  our 
experience  at  the  cost  of  another  ;  freedom  from 
all  the  embarrassment  of  regret  for  the  past,  and 
calculation  on  the  future  ;  all  that  would  be  but 
preliminary  to  the  real  business  of  education — 
insight,  insight  through  culture,  into  all  that  the 
present  moment  holds  in  trust  for  us,  as  we  stand 
so  briefly  in  its  presence.  From  that  theory  of 
life  as  the  end  of  life,  followed,  as  a  practical 
consequence,  the  desirableness  of  refining  all  the 
instruments  of  inward  and  outward  intuition,  of 
developing  all  their  capacities,  of  testing  and 
exercising  oneself  in  them,  till  one's  whole  nature 
should  become  a  complex  medium  of  reception, 
towards  the  vision — the  beatific  vision,  if  one 
really  cared  to  make  it  such — of  our  actual 
experience  in  the  world.  Not  the  conveyance  of 
an  abstract  body  of  truths  or  principles  would  be 
the  aim  of  the  right  education  of  oneself,  or  of 
another,  but  the  conveyance  of  an  art,  an  art  in 
some  degree  peculiar  and  special  to  each  in- 
dividual, with  the  modifications,  that  is,  due  to 
his  peculiar  constitution,  and  the  circumstances 
of  his  growth,  inasmuch  as  no  one  of  us  is  "  like 
another,  all  in  all."  ...  • 

"  In  Italy  all  natural  things  are  woven 
through  and  through  with  gold  thread,  even 
the  cypress  revealing  it  among  the  folds  of 
its  blackness.  And  it  is  with  gold  dust  or 
gold   thread   that   these   Venetian   painters 

237 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

seem  to  work,  spinning  its  fine  filaments 
through  the  solemn  human  flesh,  out  away 
into  the  white  plastered  walls  of  the  thatched 
huts." 

These  words,  which  occur  in  one  of 
Pater's  most  characteristic  and  delightful 
essays — that  on  the  School  oj  Giorgione — are 
peculiarly  applicable  to  this  his  latest  pro- 
duction, a  work  not  only  of  great  value  and 
importance  in  itself,  but  written  with  all 
that  delicate  charm  and  reserved  grace  of 
style  wherein  the  author  is  surpassed  by 
none.  Fine  filaments  of  gold,  utterances  of 
subtle  beauty,  are  every  here  and  there  to  be 
found  amidst  the  general  excellence  :  liter- 
ally filaments  of  verbal  gold,  for  the  very 
word  occurs  not  less  often  than  at  least  some 
score  of  times,  giving  a  vague  pleasure, 
leaving,  as  it  were,  a  faint  aroma,  not  more 
perceptible  than  some  specially  sweet  odour 
in  a  many-flowered  garden.  Yet  neither 
this  nor  any  other  characteiistic  word  or  ex- 
pression is  ever  unduly  accentuated,  ever 
more  obtrusive,  for  instance,  than  the 
subdued  glint  of  a  single  ruddy  hair  here 
and  there  in  the  tresses  of  some  Biondina 
of  Veronese  or  Titian.  This,  of  course,  is 
only  what  is  to  be  expected  of  a  writer  who 
indubitably    ranks    as    one    of    the    chief 

238 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

masters  of  English  prose.  There  are  others 
— notably  one  great  example — who  can,  or 
do,  write  with  more  brilliant  eloquence  ; 
but,  after  all,  eloquence  of  a  strongly 
pronounced  type  belongs  more  to  oratory 
than  to  literature.  Walter  Pater  is  one  of 
those  who,  by  temperament  and  perhaps 
also  by  direct  choice,  prefer  quietude  to 
excitement,  depth  and  subtle  harmony  of 
tone  to  great  brilliancy  of  colour,  reserve 
to  unstinted  plenitude.  What  most  affects 
him  pleasantly  would  seem  to  be  the  element 
of  repose,  and  disturbingly  that  of  excessive 
emphasis  ;  while  the  quality — as  may  be 
inferred  from  what  has  been  already  quoted 
— upon  which  he  sets  the  highest  value  is 
that  of  serenity.  Meditation — that  severe 
intellectual  meditation  which  Walter  Pater 
somewhere  in  this  book  speaks  of  as  the  salt 
of  poetry — and  the  most  fitting  expression 
thereof,  are  never  in  these  volumes  disso- 
ciated. As  with  the  imaginary  compositions 
of  Marius — to  whom  words  are  almost 
sacred,  so  full  of  deep  significance  and 
hidden  beauties  are  they — each  happy 
phrase  or  sentence  is  really  modelled  upon  a 
cleanly  finished  structure  of  scrupulous 
thought  ;  as  the  author  has  himself  said  of 
Wordsworth,    "  his    words    are    themselves 

239 


"  Marius  the  Epicurean  " 

thought  and  feeling :  not  eloquent  or 
musical  words  merely,  but  that  sort  of 
creative  language  which  carries  the  reality 
of  what  it  depicts  directly  to  the  con- 
sciousness." 


240 


THOMAS  HARDY  AND  HIS 
NOVELS 

(1892) 

That  the  author  of  The  Return  of  the  Native 
has  equalled  if  not  surpassed  that  master- 
piece is  proof  of  the  greatness  of  his  place 
among  contemporary  novelists.  It  is  a 
rank,  however,  as  yet  far  from  being  con- 
ceded, though  Tess  oj  the  D'Urbervilles  has 
apparently  done  more  to  bring  about  a  true 
recognition  of  the  author  than  the  whole 
range  of  his  writings  from  the  early  and 
anonymous  Desperate  Remedies,  in  1871,  to 
his  Group  of  Noble  Dames,  in  1890.  No  one 
can  approach  English  fiction  critically  and 
fail  to  perceive  that  Thomas  Hardy  is,  at 
his  best,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  novelists 
whom  England  has  produced  ;  yet  we  are 
confronted  by  the  fact  that  his  popularity, 
although  of  steady  growth,  is  altogether 
disproportionate  to  his  merits,  and  that 
even  the  immense  swing  by  which  he  has 
recently  been  carried  to  the  front  place  is 
III  241  Q 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

due  in  no  slight  degree  to  causes  inde- 
pendent of  the  literary  quality  and  value 
of  his  work. 

First  and  foremost,  Thomas  Hardy  is  a 
profound  realist.  I  admit,  that  to  me,  the 
realism  of  Mr.  Howells  is  thin  and  that  of 
Mr.  Henry  James  superficial  compared  with 
that  of  the  author  of  Under  the  Greenwood 
Tree,  The  Return  oj  the  Native,  The  Wood- 
landers,  and  Wessex  Tales.  Again,  his 
robustness  of  thought  and  speech  does  not 
appeal  to  most  readers.  They  dislike  him 
as  crudely  natural,  even  as  they  dislike  the 
strong  smell  of  the  earth,  the  reckless  by- 
play and  fierce  activities  of  the  energies 
of  nature,  the  salutary  rudeness  of  bleak 
weather,  rain,  and  the  moil  of  muddy 
ways.  It  is  possible  to  conceive  of  a  woman 
having  produced  Madame  Bovary,  but  not 
Salammbo  ;  of  having  composed  Une  Page 
d' Amour  or  even  La  Faute  de  UAhbeMouret. 
but  not  Germinal  or  La  Terre ;  even  with 
all  its  author's  intense  masculinity,  of 
having  written  Diana  oj  the  Grossways ; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  the  author 
of  The  Return  of  the  Native  or  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervillesassi'womsin,  Mr.  Hardy  is  not 
only  the  most  English  of  all  English  writers 
since    Shakespeare,    but    he    is    the    most 

242 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

essentially  masculine,  is  masculine  almost 
to  a  fault.  The  manner  of  his  expression 
being  in  accord  with  the  nature  of  his  genius, 
his  style  is  unattractive  to  many,  for  it  has 
much  of  the  massive  serenity,  the  large  air, 
the  austere  dignity  of  nature  herself.  Of  all 
modern  novelists  he  is,  or  was  till  very 
recently,  least  read  and  least  appreciated 
by  women.  This  is  strange,  as  no  writer 
of  our  time  has  shown  a  more  profound 
sense  of  the  charm  to  men  of  women  as 
women,  a  deeper  understanding  of  women's 
nature  or  the  nature  of  many  women,  and 
a  more  thorough  grasp  of  the  enormous 
influence  of  women,  through  both  her 
strength  and  her  weaknesses,  in  the  economy 
of  human  life.  But  it  is,  I  suspect,  and  as 
has  already  been  hinted,  not  only  women 
in  general,  but  a  large  section  of  intellec- 
tually effeminate  men,  who  resent  this  very 
attitude  in  Thomas  Hardy.  "  Why  cannot 
he  give  us  a  type  of  flawless  womanhood  ?  " 
is  a  question  I  have  seen  in  print  and  heard 
used  again  and  again.  Alas  !  the  painter 
of  Bathsheba  and  Eustacia  and  Tess  is  not 
the  supreme  power. 

I  have  noticed  also  that  many  persons  of 
each  sex  are  held  at  a  distance  by  certain 
essential  qualities  of  Hardy's  genius.     It  is 

243 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

inevitable  as  the  pathway  of  the  winds, 
that  are  supposed  to  blow  whence  and 
whither  they  will,  or  as  the  tread  of  the 
avenger  through  Greek  tragedy.  It  is  as 
sombre  as  the  aspect  of  Egdon  Heath, 
while  equally  alive  with  sunshine,  and 
fragrance,  and  the  quick  pulse  of  super- 
abundant life.  It  is  as  quiet,  unobtrusive, 
and  pervasive  as  the  tide,  and  has,  below 
all  the  brightness  and  merry  shimmer,  the 
profound  melancholy  of  the  ocean.  If  one 
were  to  read  sequently  this  writer's  books, 
from  the  earliest  to  Tess  of  the  O'llrbervilles, 
one  would  gain  at  last  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  the  blind  way  of  destiny,  of  the 
pathetic  futility  of  human  effort,  of  the 
pitiless  impartiality  of  the  laws  of  nature. 
For  Hardy  brings  home  to  the  reader  a 
sense  of  profound  sadness.  Without  ever 
unduly  obtruding  himself  as  the  theologian 
or  the  philosopher,  he  touches  the  deepest 
chords  of  spiritual  life,  and  having  wrought 
his  subtle  music  therefrom,  turns  away  with 
a  loving,  sorrowful  regret  at  all  the  by-play 
of  existence  beneath  such  dim  darkness 
behind,  above,  and  beyond.  Yet  to  speak 
of  him  as  a  pessimistic  writer  would  be 
misleading  because  inadequate.  He  does 
not  preach  pessimism,  for  he  has  the  saving 

244 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

grace  of  having  no  "  ism  "  to  support  or 
to  exemplify.  He  is  tolerant  and  patient, 
seeing  at  once  the  good  and  the  weakness  in 
all.  In  a  word,  the  pessimism  of  which 
so  many  complain  is  a  revelation  rather 
than  an  exposition.  Characteristically 
enough,  it  is  seldom  that  he  directly  writes 
in  a  strain  of  sadness.  Life,  movement, 
humour,  and  the  endless  play  of  the  forces 
of  nature,  and  her  innumerable  and  ever 
changing  aspects,  afford  him  more  than  he 
reveals  his  intimate  sense  of  the  insoluble 
mystery  of  existence,  of  our  unguided  way 
across  a  trackless  plain  of  whose  lost 
frontiers  there  is  no  resemblance,  and  whose 
horizons  are  seen  of  none.  It  is  this  stead- 
fast austerity  which  has  stood  between 
him  and  so  large  a  portion  of  the  reading 
public. 

Of  less  importance  than  his  genuine 
realism  or  than  his  characteristic  if  half- 
observed  irony,  but  still  a  noteworthy  factor 
in  the  matter  of  Thomas  Hardy's  acceptance 
of  the  public,  is  his  style,  or  to  be  more 
exact,  certain  idiosyncrasies  of  style. 
Though  the  most  exclusively  and  natively 
English  of  all  the  great  novelists  of  the 
Victorian  age,  he  is  in  point  of  diction  the 
most   Latinical   writer  we   have   had  since 

245 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

Dry  den  and  Milton.  This  is  characteristic 
of  the  Celtic  Briton,  and  not  the  "  English 
Englishman."  And  yet,  so  far  as  is  known. 
Hardy  is  of  Old  Saxon  or  Anglo-Danish 
stock.  In  this  respect  he  is  to  be  classed 
with  two  other  writers  who  are  both 
markedly  given  to  a  strongly  Latinised 
diction — George  Meredith  and  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson, 

Perhaps  one  must  know  something  of 
Wessex  in  order  fully  to  enjoy  Thomas 
Hardy's  novels.  Certainly  to  those  familiar 
with  the  south-western  counties  there  is  as 
little  exaggerated  in  his  chronicle  of  the 
doings  and  sayings  of  the  natives  as  in  his 
descriptions  of  the  general  and  particular 
features  of  the  country-side,  from  the 
mystic  barrows  beyond  Egdon  Heath  on  the 
north  to  where,  on  the  south,  the  Channel 
waves  splash  at  the  feet  of  the  little  town 
"  sacred  to  the  memory  "  of  the  trumpet - 
major.  Hardy's  own  qualities  of  humour, 
shrewdness,  and  quaintness  have  not  led 
him  to  pervert  the  homely  speech  of  the 
country-folk  into  a  diction  impossible  or 
at  least  improbable.  What  he  has  done  is 
to  give,  for  the  most  part,  only  the  quintes- 
sential part  of  it.  In  this  sense,  and  this 
sense  only,  can  he  be  held  to  account  for 

246 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

straining  or  overcolouring  his  material.  It 
is  thus,  no  doubt,  that  so  many  of  his  most 
careful  readers  note  the  Shakepearean 
quality  of  so  much  of  his  peasant  speech  ; 
for  unquestionably  Shakespeare  drew  his 
Touchstones  and  Audreys  from  life — and 
the  labouring  folk  of  Wessex  of  to-day  differ 
wondrous  little  in  all  essential  respects  from 
their  ancestors  of  Elizabethan,  Stuart,  or 
Georgian  times.  Wise  words  don't  come 
from  a  fool  in  whatever  degree  of  social  life 
he  moves  ;  and  vice  versa,  when  naturally 
shrewd  and  vigorous  minds  express  them- 
selves, they  do  so  aptly  whether  they  be  as 
cultured  as  Swithin  St.  Cleeve  and  Lady 
Constantine,  as  "  ordinary  "  as  Gabriel 
Oak  or  John  Love  day,  as  insignificant 
socially  as  Tess  Durbeyfield  or  Marty  South 
or  Fancy  Day,  as  "  low  "  as  Diggory  the 
reddelman  or  the  for-ever  perspiring  Reuben 
Dewy.  For  the  most  part  the  Wessex 
of  Hardy  is  a  land  of  woodland  and  pasture, 
here  rising  into  grassy  uplands  and  even 
hills,  here  sinking  into  long,  fertile,  ver- 
durous valleys,  here  dark  with  oak  and 
beech  leaves  of  the  New  Forest,  here  bare 
with  the  vast  heaths  and  moors  which  give 
so  great  a  portion  of  it  a  character  so  unlike 
that  of  the  shires  to  the  north  and  east, 

247 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

The  villages,  too,  are  just  as  they  were  in 
the  times  of  our  forefathers. 

Thomas  Hardy  himself  resides  in  the  heart 
of  the  "  five-countied  Wessex."  His  home 
is  a  large  red-brick  house  built  after  his 
own  design,  situated  on  the  rise  of  a  long 
upland  sweep  to  the  east  of  Dorchester.  A 
vast  perspective  is  before  one  from  almost 
any  one  of  the  windows  of  the  house, 
rolling  downs,  acres  of  arable  land  and 
pastures,  upland  ranges,  and  dark  belts  of 
woodland,  with,  valley-ward,  the  white 
gleam  of  the  Frome  meandering  among  the 
daisy  lands  and  through  and  past  ancient 
Dorchester.  Far  away  to  the  right  is  the 
hill-top  monument  to  his  kinsman  of  old, 
Admiral  Hardy  "  of  glorious  renown  "  ; 
to  the  south-west  are  the  broken  ridges  of 
that  extraordinary  freak  of  nature  (and  toil 
of  man)  known  as  "  Maiden  Castle."  In 
front  of  the  house  itself  stretches  away  an 
immense  swelling  meadow,  some  three 
thousand  acres  in  extent,  the  largest  in 
England.  I  cannot  swear  to  the  acreage, 
but  answer  for  the  vaguer  statement.  The 
house  is  known  as  "Max  Gate,"  the  old 
name  of  the  portion  of  the  upland  whereon 
it  is  built,  and  of  the  small  hamlet  near, 
though  it  was  at  one  time  the  intention  of 

248 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

the  owner  to  call  his  place  "Conquer 
Barrow,"  after  the  tree-covered  mound 
which  rises  to  the  north-east  just  beyond 
his  garden  walls.  Not  only  is  Mr.  Hardy 
thus  in  the  best  possible  position  for  the 
novelist  of  Wessex,  within  easy  reach  as  he 
is  of  any  part  of  the  whole  region  brought 
so  vividly  near  to  us  in  Under  the  Greenwood 
Tree  and  The  Woodlanders,  in  The  Return 
0/  the  Native  and  Tess  oj  the  D'  Urhervilles, 
but  he  is  in  what  is  to  him,  with  his  scien- 
tific and  antiquarian  as  well  as  artistic 
and  literary  tastes,  a  profoundly  interesting 
country.  Dorchester,  itself  a  great  Roman 
encampment  and  fortress  in  the  days  of 
Constant ine,  and  the  whole  region  around, 
are  as  full  of  "remains"  Roman  and 
Anglo-Saxon  as  any  locality  in  western 
Europe. 

"  Among  the  few  features  of  agricultural 
Europe  which  retain  an  appearance  but 
little  modified  by  the  lapse  of  centuries 
may  be  reckoned  the  high,  grassy,  and 
furzy  downs,  coombs,  or  ewe-leases,  as  they 
are  indifferently  called,  that  fill  a  large  area 
of  certain  counties  in  the  south  and  south- 
west." So  begins  the  story  of  The  Three 
Strangers,  in  Wessex  Tales.  If  the  Londoner 
or  visitor  to  our  "province  of  houses"  tire 

249 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

of  the  inevitable  urban  hurry  and  worry,  he 
could  do  no  better  than  take  a  leisurely  walk- 
ing-trip among  those  "  high  grassy  and  furzy 
downs,  coombs,  or  ewe-leases."    He  will  find 
them  and  the  homely,  ignorant,  yet  shrewd 
and  often  highly  intelligent  and  even  original 
people  who  dwell  by  them  just  as  described 
by  Mr.  Hardy.     He  will  gain  enjoyment  and 
renewed  vigour  of  body,  and  find  that  it  is 
not  "  Continental  travel  "  alone  that  enlarges 
the  mind.     Parochialism  is  easier  to  carry 
about  with  one  than   even  one's  portman- 
teau.    But  for  those  who  cannot  wayfare 
into  Wessex,  let  me  recommend  a  mental 
voyage  with  Mr.  Hardy  as  guide  and  com- 
panion.    One  cannot  but  be  stronger  and 
saner  and  healthier  and  every  way  better 
for    such    an    experience.     To    those    who 
already  know  all  he  has  to  tell  us,  Wessex 
is  a  haunted   land,  to  which  it  is  ever  a 
rare  pleasure  to  turn,  whether  in  fact  or 
vicariously.     And  there  is  endless  company 
— from  such  wrecks  of  man's  high  estate 
as    Thomas    Leaf    or    Granfer    Castle    or 
Christian    Bathsheba    Everdene,    Eustacia 
Vye,  Marty  South,  Tess  Durbey field,  Gabriel 
Oak,  John   Loveday,   or   Clym   Yeobright. 
This  Wessex  of  Thomas  Hardy  is,  to  lovers 
of  his  work,  but  another  Wilderness  Bottom 

250 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

green  and  fragrant  and  winsome,  from 
whose  "  thickets  of  dream  "  comes  enchant- 
ment as  sweet  and  welcome  as  that  "  loud, 
musical,  liquid  voice  "  which  Dick  Dewy 
and  Fancy  Day  heard  by  the  copses  on  their 
wedding  day. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  born  in  Dorset  in  1840. 
After  an  education  which  comprised  a 
good  classical  and  scientific  training,  though 
he  was  at  no  university,  he  began  life  as  an 
architect.  He  resided  in  London  from 
1862  to  1867,  from  1870  to  1872,  and  from 
1878  to  1881  ;  for  the  rest  he  has  lived 
mostly  in  Dorset.  His  comparatively  brief 
sojourns  in  Italy  and  France  have  left 
almost  no  trace  upon  his  work.  His  first 
printed  literary  production  was  an  essay 
on  coloured  brick  architecture,  written 
with  so  much  technical  knowledge  and  in 
so  creditable  a  style  that  the  author  was 
awarded  the  medal  of  the  "  Institute  of 
Architects."  Prior  to  1870  he  wrote,  with 
this  exception,  nothing  of  any  importance, 
and  the  most  industrious  and  unprincipled 
resurrector  would  be  hard  pushed  to  rake 
up  against  this  author  an}^  juvenilia,  except 
perhaps  a  signed  sketch  of  a  few  pages 
contributed  to  Chambers''  Magazine  late  in 
the  sixties.     But  in  1870  he  decided  to  see 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

what  he  could  do  as  a  novelist.  At  this 
date  he  recognised  neither  his  true  bent 
in  fiction  nor  the  great  advantage  of  the 
material  which  since  his  early  boyhood  he 
had  unconsciously  accumulated.  At  the 
same  time,  both  from  choice  and  from 
instinct,  he  depicted  scenery  and  delineated 
types  of  character  more  or  less  familiar  to 
him  ;  and  though  it  would  be  foolish  to 
claim  for  his  first  book  any  high  place  in 
contemporary  fiction,  it  is  not  to  be  passed 
over  in  the  cavalier  fashion  adopted  by 
many  newspaper  critics.  In  the  first  place 
Desperate  Remedies  has  originality  in  more 
ways  than  one,  an  originality  more  obvious 
in  1871  than  twenty  years  later,  no  doubt  ; 
in  the  next  it  is  of  particular  importance  to 
every  critic  of  Mr.  Hardy's  collective  work, 
for  in  it  is  much  that  is  suggestive,  much 
that  goes  to  substantiate  the  statement 
that  from  the  first  a  continuous  vein  of 
inspiration  has  sustained  the  novelist,  a 
vein  as  clearly  recognisable  as  it  is  distinctly 
individual. 

In  1872  another  novel  appeared  without 
the  author's  name,  though  acknowledged 
to  be  by  the  author  of  Desperate  Remedies. 
Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  was  subtitled  A 
rural  painting  oj  the  Dutch  School,  and  here 

252 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

we  have  unmistakably  the  hand  of  a  master. 
To  this  day  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 
remains  one  of  Thomas  Hardy's  most 
distinctive  achievements.  It  seems  to  me 
to  stand  alone  as  much  now  as  at  the  time 
when  it  appeared.  From  first  to  last  it  is 
admirable,  though  it  has  no  plot  to  speak  of, 
and  is,  in  a  word,  nothing  more  than  a 
series  of  life-like  studies  of  man  and  nature 
connected  by  a  thread  of  narrative.  But 
where  can  we  find  its  like  ?  Where  has 
anything  more  absolutely  English  been 
done  ?  Where,  since  the  time  of  Shake- 
speare, do  we  encounter  such  vivid  fidelity, 
such  Rembrandtesque  setting  of  homely 
things  in  the  picturesque  aspect  that  is 
none  the  less  true  because  seen  quintes- 
sentially  ?  In  his  next  book  Mr.  Hardy 
made  a  more  definite  bid  for  success  with 
the  novel-reading  public.  A  Pair  oj  Blue 
Eyes  (1873)  was  a  title  likely  to  appeal  to 
the  subscribers  to  circulating-libraries,  and 
as  a  matter  of  fact  the  book  has  some 
vogue.  Though  it  has  many  notable  things 
in  it,  and  as  a  story  is  a  distinct  advance 
upon  any  previous  tale  from  the  same 
pen,  it  is  not  one  of  the  author's  important 
books.  At  the  same  time  Elfrida  Swan- 
court    is   one   of   Hardy's   most  distinctive 

253 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

creations.  It  is  commonly  understood  that 
of  all  his  heroines  she  is  the  best  liked 
by  women.  But  in  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd  a  far  wider  success  was  won.  This 
book  made  its  author  one  of  the  foremost 
novelists  of  his  day,  and  still  is  the  most 
popular  of  all  his  romances,  Gabriel  Oak 
and  Bathsheba  Everdene  are  now  as 
familiar  names  in  our  ears  as  those  of 
almost  any  personages  in  Scott,  Thackeray, 
or  Dickens.  The  whole  art  of  the  author 
can  be  studied  in  this  novel.  No  one  is 
at  once  more  vital  and  more  reserved 
than  he  ;  no  one  more  great  and  vigorous 
and  blithely  humorous,  and  yet  more 
profoundly  impressed  by  the  tragic  pathos 
and  mystery  of  our  "  why  and  wherefore," 
The  pathos,  almost  invariably  unobtrusive, 
is  as  natural  and  genuine  as  the  humour. 
It  is  of  a  kind  that  has  no  kinship  with 
sentimentality,  but  is  as  it  were  the  twilight 
and  moonlight  of  a  strong,  vigorous  life. 
More  than  once  this  chronicle  of  the  country- 
side rises  to  a  high  pitch  of  dramatic  in- 
tensity. A  hint  as  to  the  motif  of  the  book, 
as  indeed  of  all  Thomas  Hardy's  work, 
might  be  found  in  that  pregnant  sentence 
in  one  of  the  ea.T\y  chapters,  "  Love  is  a 
possible  strength  in  an  actual  weakness." 

254 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

Fine,  however,  as  is  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd,  it  is  not  his  masterpiece.  That  was 
written  some  four  years  later.  But  before 
the  pubHcation  in  'y8  of  The  Return  0}  the 
Native  there  appeared  the  novel  called 
The  Hand  of  Ethelberta.  Public  opinion 
is  still  strangely  divided  about  this  book. 
There  are  readers  who  think  it  one  of  the 
author's  cleverest  productions,  and  there 
are  more  who  miss  in  it  the  peculiar  quality 
which  enhances  for  them  the  value  of  such 
works  as  The  Return  of  the  Native,  The 
Woodlanders,  and  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles. 
The  first  of  these  three,  one  of  the  greatest 
works  of  fiction  in  our  time,  was  by  no 
means  at  first  hailed  as  a  masterpiece, 
though  in  this  instance  the  public  proved 
wiser  than  the  critics.  This  story  of  Clym 
Yeobright,  Eustacia  Vye,  of  so  manj^ 
others  of  all  degrees  from  passionate  Wildeve 
and  winsome  Thomasin  and  the  homely 
reddelman,  Diggory  Venn,  to  Grandfer 
Castle  and  Christian,  and  the  heathside 
company  who  meet  at  The  Quiet  Woman  inn 
and  elsewhere,  is  one  of  the  most  moving 
and  memorable  novels  in  our  language. 

The  Trumpet  Major,  which  chronologically 
was  produced  next  in  order,  was  for  many 
years   and   possibly   still   is   a   much   more 

255 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

popular  novel.  True,  the  period  dealt  with 
is  a  more  remote  one,  and  the  ordinary 
novel  reader  is  apt  not  to  give  his  or  her  vote 
for  a  story  wherein  the  hero  is  finally  left 
out  in  the  cold  ;  yet  the  events  are  of  so 
stirring  a  kind  and  the  narrative  is  so  full 
of  vivid  and  picturesque  detail  that  John 
Loveda}/  has  probably  a  larger  circle  of 
friends  than  any  other  of  Hardy's  male 
characters,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
Gabriel  Oak  and  Clym  Yeobright.  If  the 
book  have  not  the  tragic  intensity  of  The 
Return  of  the  Native,  the  nervous  movement 
and  youthful  energy  of  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd,  the  austere  impressiveness  of  The 
Woodlanders,  or  the  glow  and  passionate 
humanity  of  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  it  has 
a  serene  and  welcome  charm  of  its  own, 
the  quiet  sundown  light  of  a  bright  autumnal 
day.  As  unlike  The  Trumpet  Major  as 
either  of  its  two  most  notable  predecessors 
are  the  two  volumes  which  came  next,  A 
Laodicean  in  1881  and  Two  on  a  Tower  in 
1882.  In  my  judgment  A  Laodicean  is  the 
least  successful  of  all  Thomas  Hardy's 
novels.  It  seems  even  to  lack  vitality. 
Two  on  a  Tower,  on  the  other  hand,  is  alive 
from  first  to  last,  and  though  not  in  what 
may    be    called    his    permanent    manner, 

256 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

it  is  a  novel  of  singular  wit,  charm,  skill, 
and  grace.  Yet  even  here  the  best  things 
are  said  by  "  the  common  chorus,"  and 
probably  as  many  readers  enjoy  the  remarks 
of  Hezekiah  Biles,  Sammy  Blore,  Nat 
Chapman,  and  Haymoss  Fry,  as  of  Lady 
Constantine  and  Swithin  St.  Cleeve. 

Four  years  elapsed  between  the  publica- 
tion of  Two  on  a  Tower  and  The  Mayor  of 
Casterbridge,  though  in  this  period  were 
written  two  or  three  of  the  remarkable  short 
stories  which  later  on  were  issued  under  the 
collective  title  of  Wessex  Tales.  The  Mayor 
of  Casterbridge  is,  I  have  heard,  looked  upon 
by  booksellers  as  the  least  popular  of 
Thomas  Hardy's  books.  This  is  not  quite 
easy  to  understand.  Certainly  it  is  not  so 
well  constructed  and  is  in  a  sober  tone 
throughout,  and,  what  perhaps  signifies 
much,  there  is  less  humour  in  it  than  in 
most  of  the  other  chronicles  of  country  life 
in  Wessex.  On  the  other  hand,  Michael 
Henchard,  the  mayor,  is  one  of  Hardy's 
most  noteworthy  creations. 
-  In  the  Wessex  Tales,  again,  we  find  the 
same  qualities  which  have  ensured  the  suc- 
cess of  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  and 
its  kindred.  These  stories  are  admirable, 
and  in  vigour,  picturesqueness,  humour,  and 

III  257  R 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

potent  charm,  seem  to  me  much  beyond  the 
later  series  of  stories  collectively  called  A 
Group  of  Noble  Dames.  One  can,  for 
several  reasons,  imagine  this  opinion  being 
challenged  by  the  author  himself,  for  he 
must  have  had  a  new  and  welcome  pleasure 
in  writing  the  charming  "  little  histories  " 
of  these  mostly  frail  Wessex  dames  of  high 
degree.  But  surely  in  the  "groups  "  there 
is  nothing  to  equal,  much  less  to  surpass, 
the  finest  of  the  three  Wessex  tales — The 
Three  Strangers,  The  Withered  Arm,  and 
Interlopers  at  the  Knap.  What  an  ad- 
mirable story  the  last  named  is  !  How 
much  of  it  one  would  like  to  quote  !  I 
know  nothing  of  its  kind  finer  than  The 
Three  Strangers.  It  stands  out  among 
short  stories  by  great  writers  of  our  time 
much  in  the  same  way  as  Wandering  Willy's 
Tale,  among  the  brief  essays  in  fiction  of  an 
earlier  period.  It  has  all  the  best  qualities 
of  the  best  Netherland  art,  and  is  just  what 
we  might  expect  from  Rembrandt  were  he 
to  come  among  us  again  and  take  up  the 
pen  instead  of  the  brush  or  the  etching- 
needle. 

But  before  the  issue  in  book-form  of  the 
Wessex  Tales  there  appeared  in  1887  one 
of  the  most  notable  of  all  Thomas  Hardy's 

258 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

works.  It  has  always  been  a  puzzle  to  me 
why  The  Woodlanders  seems  comparatively 
so  little  known.  One  may  ask  a  score  of 
people  which  of  Thomas  Hardy's  novels 
they  have  read,  and  probably  not  more 
than  three  or  four  will  have  any  first-hand 
knowledge  of  this  masterly  and  beautiful 
study.  It  is  as  absolutely  the  author's 
own  as  The  Return  of  the  Native  or  as  Tess 
of  the  D'Urhervilles,  for  though  his  indi- 
viduality is  keenly  marked  throughout  all 
his  books,  it  is  most  dominant  in  these. 
The  purport  of  this  story  is  to  exhibit  "  the 
unfulfilled  intention  which  makes  life  what 
it  is."  It  is  a  somewhat  sombre  tale,  and 
there  are  scenes  in  it,  as  in  Tess,  which 
seem  to  have  given  offence  to  those  possibly 
worthy  but  stupid  and  blundering  people 
who  constitute  themselves  the  champions 
of  Mrs.  Grundy  and  the  exponents  of  that 
silly  old  lady's  views  ;  but  to  arrive  at  an 
estimate  of  Thomas  Hardy's  place  in  con- 
temporary literature  and  to  leave  The 
Woodlanders  unread,  would  be  like  a  similar 
estimate  of  Mr.  Meredith  without  con- 
sideration of,  say,  The  Egoist,  or  Diana  of 
the  Crossways.  This  nobly  wrought  book 
has  something  of  the  effect  of  night  upon 
one,  a  sense  of  largeness  and  vast  quiescence 

259 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

beyond  all  personal  fret  and  weariness,  of 
"  night,  that  strange  personality,  which 
within  walls  brings  ominous  introspective- 
ness  and  self  distrust,  but  under  open  sky 
banishes  such  subjective  niceties  as  too 
trivial  for  thought." 

Nevertheless,  when  we  come  at  last  to 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  we  have  before  us 
the  most  mature  and,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  powerful  expression  of  the  author's 
genius.  I  have  read  several  parts  of  the 
book  again  and  again,  and  have  read  the 
story  as  a  whole  twice,  and  in  so  doing  I 
have  felt  as  though  all  of  Hardy's  works 
that  preceded  it  were  in  some  sort  a  clearing 
of  the  ground — more  or  less  brilliant  heralds, 
let  me  say  rather,  of  this  superb  achieve- 
ment. The  romance  has  the  power,  the 
intensity,  the  inevitableness,  and  above  all 
the  warm  humanity  of  the  great  dramas, 
ancient  and  modern.  It  is  so  homely  a 
subject,  and  deals  so  simply  with  simple 
things  of  common  life  in  a  remote  English 
county,  that  its  effect  upon  the  mind  is  all 
the  more  reason  for  our  wonder  and  ad- 
miration. I  can  well  believe  what  I  heard 
a  distinguished  author  declare,  that  no  man, 
and  certainly  no  woman,  could  read  this 
book  with  sympathy  and  not  thenceforth 

260 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

be   of  broader   mind   and   more   charitable 
and  catholic  spirit. 

Tess  herself  is  as  living  a  woman  as  there 
is  in  fiction  ;  but  there  is  embodied  in  her 
also  something  that  neither  she  nor  Angel 
Clair  nor  any  one  ever  guessed — the  typical 
strength  and  weakness  of  an  immense, 
perhaps  preponderating  number  of  women. 
Whatever  is  best  in  Thomas  Hardy's  work 
is  to  be  found  in  this  page  from  life — 
humour,  pathos,  tragedy,  marvellous  de- 
scriptive faculty,  and  that  transforming 
magic  through  all,  for  which  there  is  no 
other  word  than  the  much  abused  term 
"genius."  There  are  scenes  in  Tess  which 
one  cannot  but  believe  will  represent  the 
high-water  mark  of  our  later  Victorian 
fiction,  and  there  are  episodes  which  must 
surely  touch  the  hearts  and  influence  the 
minds  of  those  who  come  after  us  almost  as 
profoundly  as  they  do  our  own.  In  de- 
pictive art  there  is  nothing  in  the  range  of 
modern  fiction,  not  even  of  the  narrative 
of  the  wooing  of  Lucy  and  Richard  Feverel 
by  the  river  side,  to  surpass  the  supremely 
beautiful  description  of  the  morning  meet- 
ings of  Angel  and  Tess  during  the  height  of 
the  milking  season  at  Talbothay's  Farm, 
daily  meetings  in  that  strange  and  solemn 

261 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

interval,  the  twilight  of  the  morning,  in  the 
violet  or  pink  dawn.  Here  we  have  the 
very  spirit  of  romance,  and  here  we  have 
English  prose  of  the  noblest  kind. 

Every  reader  of  Thomas  Hardy's  novels 
will  differ  as  to  the  relative  rank  that  ought 
to  be  given  to  each  book.  A  consensus  of 
opinion  as  to  which  are  his  three  greatest 
works  would  be  interesting  and  suggestive. 
I  would  advance  a  claim  for  pre-eminence 
in  behalf  of  The  Return  of  the  Native,  The 
Woodlanders  and  Tess  of  the  D''Urbervilles. 
In  these  three  books  it  seems  to  me  that  we 
have  the  highest  development  of  a  rare 
literary  temperament,  the  finest  and  largest 
utterance  of  genius  that  can  no  longer  be 
gainsaid  as  such.  Thereafter  {Under  the 
Greenwood  Tree  not  being  considered  as  a 
novel,  but  rather  as  a  sequence  of  rustic 
studies)  would  come  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd,  the  finest  of  The  Wcssex  Tales,  and, 
though  not  quite  with  them.  The  Trumpet 
Major. 

There  is  one  quality  which  Thomas  Hardy 
has  far  in  excess  of  any  other  English 
novelist,  that  of  the  intimate  sense  of  the 
complex  interrelation  of  man  and  nature. 
There,  again,  he  stands  alone  as  an  exponent 
of  the  epical  method.     He  is  the  sole  living 

262 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

Englishman  of  whom  I  know  who  can  write 
as  Zola  does  at  his  best ;  who  could  do  and 
has  done  writing  so  far  beyond  all  the  fret 
and  fume  of  contemporary  opinion  as  the 
close  of  that  Titanic  masterpiece  Germinal 
or  even  of  La  Terre.  Hardy  is  an  in- 
comparably finer  artist  than  Zola,  and  at 
the  same  time  in  intensity  of  concentration 
is  the  only  man  who  approaches  that  great 
and  much  misunderstood  writer.  Yet,  at 
his  highest  even,  Zola  has  given  us  little  of 
the  commanding  beauty  of  Hardy's  speech 
at  its  best.  No  one  can  ever  forget  the 
solemn  procession  of  "  inspired  "  words  at 
the  close  of  La  Terre  or  Germinal ;  but  while 
they  have  the  charm  of  vast  perspectives 
seen  from  the  dusty  highway  of  life,  Hardy's 
finest  utterances  exercise  the  spell  of  a  not 
less  real  though  a  more  remote  realm  of 
romance.  One  writer  is  a  man  who  can 
see  things  only  at  his  feet  or  else  afar,  the 
other  a  man  whose  clear  and  serene  gaze 
takes  all  in,  in  just  proportions.  No  living 
man  has  given  us  more  memorable  pictures 
than  of  "  the  dewy  morn  "  meetings  of  Tess 
and  Angel  Clair,  already  alluded  to,  or  of 
Marty  South  and  Giles  Winterborne  walking 
silently  together  in  the  chill  lonely  hour 
before    a   winter-day   dawn,    "  where    gray 

263 


Thomas  Hardy  and  his  Novels 

shades,  material  and  mental,  are  so  very 
gray.  And  yet,  looked  at  in  a  certain  way, 
their  lonely  courses  formed  no  detached 
design  at  all,  but  were  part  of  the  pattern 
in  the  great  web  of  human  doings  then 
weaving  in  both  hemispheres,  from  the 
White  Sea  to  Cape  Horn."  It  is  somewhat 
sadly  significant  that  it  is  the  poet  and 
el  ear -eyed,  saner,  and  more  deeply  observant 
writer  who  penned  that  profoundly  pessi- 
mistic sentence  in  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles. 
"  It  is  then  (where  '  the  constraint  of  day  and 
the  suspense  of  night  neutralise  each  other  ') 
that  the  plight  of  being  alive  becomes 
attenuated  to  its  least  possible  dimensions." 
Is  this  to  be  Thomas  Hardy's  final  word  on 
the  mystery  of  human  life  ? 


264 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

AN  ESTIMATE  OF  HIS  WORK  IN 
PROSE  AND  VERSE 

(1899) 

After  many  years  of  general  indifference, 
George  Meredith  has  come  into  his  kingdom. 
To-day  he  stands  foremost  in  English 
letters.  None  disputes  his  place  as  our 
keenest  critic  of  social  life  ;  admittedly  he 
is  a  great  writer,  with  a  power  over  the  well- 
springs  of  tears  and  laughter,  of  irony  and 
tragedy,  beyond  that  of  any  contemporary. 
He  has,  moreover,  that  intimate  sense  of 
romance,  which,  striking  as  it  does  through 
the  common  ways  and  familiar  routine  of 
life,  carries  with  it  an  air  so  convincing  that 
none  may  gainsay  its  winsome  charm.  From 
first  to  last,  his  outlook  is  at  once  the  most 
human  and  searching  and  the  most  spiritual 
and  far  reaching. 

As    romancist,    he    who    disengages    the 
living  spirit  of  youth  ;  as  the  realist,  he  who 

265 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

limns  the  intimate  self  as  well  as  the  mobile 
features,  the  mien  and  manner  of  actuality  ; 
as  the  comedian,  he  who  looks  across  the 
tragi-comedy  of  life  and  smiles  at  its  ex- 
quisite incongruities  ;  as  the  tragedian,  he 
who  looks  across  the  same  tragi-comedy, 
and  reflects,  as  a  mirror  reflecting  shadows, 
the  mystery  and  dark  significance  of  the 
unknown,  and  that  terror  and  despair  and 
sadness  of  ours  which  are  its  ministers  ; 
and  as  the  poet  of  the  J 03^  of  Earth,  of  the 
triumphant  Hope  of  the  Spirit,  •  George 
Meredith  is  not  only  a  prince  of  letters,  but 
exercises  over  the  younger  generation  an 
influence  as  fortunate  as  it  is  profound. 

True,  there  are  the  defects  of  his  high 
qualities  wherewith  to  reckon.  His  strength 
is  often  accompanied  by  an  impetuosity 
which,  with  a  great  number  of  would-be 
readers,  defeats  its  own  end — not  a  reinless 
vehemence,  still  less  a  hurried  habit  of  mind, 
but  a  controlled  impetuosity  whereby  this 
magician  of  words  bewilders  less  swift  and 
agile  minds,  less  nimble  understandings.  It 
is,  perhaps,  in  his  later  poetry  more  than  in 
his  prose  that  overmuch  he  delivers  himself 
to  his  delight  in  words  and  subtle  but  diffi- 
cult diction — and  in  verse,  as  is  obvious,  any 
obscurity  is  more  swiftly  apparent,  and  more 

266 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

perilous.  There  are  times  when  this  wholly 
characteristic  and  native  manner  degenerates 
into  mannerism  ;  but  with  all  deference  to 
those  who  plead,  and  in  the  main  wisely, 
for  a  habitual  simplicity,  and  who  resent 
Meredith's  peculiarities,  it  surely  must  be 
admitted  that  these  difficulties  and  obscuri- 
ties have  been  greatly  exaggerated.  It  is 
certainly  not  the  case  that  they  are  due  to 
wilful  affectation.  Any  one  who  has  the 
honour  of  knowing  Meredith  is  aware  that 
he  writes  as  to  the  manner  born ;  that 
his  phrasings  are  as  natural  to  him  as  the 
"  A3^e,  aye,  sir  !  "  of  the  sailor  or  the  "  yes, 
m'  lud  !  "  of  the  barrister,  and  that,  speaking 
generally,  his  work  is  but  the  reflex  of  his 
mind,  of  the  subtlest,  most  distinguished 
and  variegated  literary  temperament  of  our 
time.  How  far  from  arrogance,  or  the  com- 
mon conceit  of  the  lesser  scribe,  George 
Meredith  stands,  is  revealed  in  a  noble 
sonnet,  where  even  the  subtle  use  of  "  we  " 
and  "  I  "  is  eminently  indicative  : 

Assured  of  worthiness,  we  do  not  dread 
Competitors  ;  we  rather  give  them  hail 
A  nd  greeting  in  the  lists  where  we  may  fail  ; 
Must,  if  we  bear  an  aim  beyond  the  head  ! 
My  betters  are  my  masters  :  purely  fed. 
By  their  sustainment  I  likewise  shall  scale 
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George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Some  rocky  steps  between  the  mount  and  vale  ; 
Meantime  the  mark  I  have  and  I  will  wed. 
So  that  I  draw  the  breath  of  finer  air, 
Station  is  nought,  nor  footways  laurel-strewn  ; 
Nor  rivals  tightly  belted  for  the  race, 
Good  speed  to  them  !  My  place  is  here  or  there  ; 
My  pride  is  that  among  them  I  have  place  ; 
And  thus  I  keep  this  instrument  in  tune. 

From  first  to  last,  George  Meredith  has 
drawn  this  breath  of  finer  air  of  which  he 
speaks  ;  from  first  to  last  he  has  kept  his 
instrument  in  tune. 

It  would  be  easy  to  dwell  upon  the  un- 
questionable defects  in  style,  upon  the  not 
■  infrequent  lapses  from  that  inward  discretion 
which  is  the  soul  of  style,  of  this  great 
writer.  But  these  lie  apparent  to  one  and 
all,  if  to  some  grotesquely  exaggerated.  It 
is  more  fitting  to  turn  towards  the  infinitely 
greater  measure  of  noble  worth,  of  brilliant 
comedy,  of  illuminative  insight,  of  exquisite 
romance,  of  intimate  knowledge  of  men  and 
women  and  a  no  less  profound  intimacy 
with  nature,  and  to  the  ever  varying  revela- 
tion of  an  ever  genial  and  catholic  wisdom. 
It  may,  however,  be  as  well  to  add  that 
he  or  she  who  would  begin  the  study  of 
George  Meredith's  writings  should  certainly 
not  in  the  first  instance  take  up,  say.  One 
of  our  Conquerors,  or,  in  verse,  the  Odes  in 

268 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Contribution  to  the  Song  oj  French  History. 
These  in  due  course. 

George  Meredith,  born  in  Hampshire 
on  February  12,  1828,  began  his  literary 
career  early.  His  first  appearance  in  print 
was  with  a  poem,  Chillianwallah,  in  Cham- 
bers' Journal,  in  July  1849,  and  his  first 
book,  the  now  exceedingly  scarce  Poems, 
appeared  two  years  later.  Nothing  is  more 
amazing  than  his  maturity  in  prose.  Before 
he  was  thirty  he  had  written  The  Shaving  of 
Shagpat,  Farina,  and  (to  this  day  his  most 
popular,  and  by  many  considered  his  finest 
romance)  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel. 
The  first  two  are,  perhaps,  the  most  brilliant 
and  finished  works  of  their  kind  ever  pro- 
duced by  a  young  writer  :  the  third  is  a 
masterpiece  of  fiction,  already  one  of  the 
classics  of  the  English  language,  and  ad- 
mittedly the  inspiration  of  much  of  the 
truest  romance  that  has  been  wiitten  since. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  wont  to  speak 
of  it  as  the  finest  expression  of  the  romantic 
spirit  in  contemporary  fiction,  meaning,  of 
course,  the  romance  of  familiar  life,  not 
of  perilous  adventure  and  hair  -  breadth 
escapes. 

If  it  be  true  what  Coleridge  says  in  his 
Aids    to    Reflection,    that   exclusive    of   the 

269 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

abstract  sciences  the  largest  and  worthiest 
portion  of  our  knowledge  consists  in  apho- 
risms, and  that  the  greatest  of  men  is  but 
an  aphorism,  then  truly  George  Meredith, 
the  prince  of  aphorists,  is  the  greatest  of 
contemporaries.  These  wonderful  aphorisms 
of  his,  however,  are  not  by  any  means  merely 
jeux  d'es-prit,  brilliant  coruscations  of  an 
electric  wit  :  they  are  that,  but  they  are 
much  more — for  they  are  born  of  closest 
observation  of  life,  profound  meditation, 
and  inward  wisdom.  A  wisely  made  selec- 
tion of  "  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  George 
Meredith,"  would  reveal  him  not  only  as  the 
keenest  observer  but  as  the  profoundest 
and  sanest  thinker  of  our  time.  He  has 
ever  had  one  aim,  the  impassioned  quest  of 
truth. 

O  sir,  the  truth,  the  truth  !  is't  in  the  skies. 
Or  in  the  grass,  or  in  this  heart  of  ours  ? 
But  O  the  truth,  the  truth  !  the  many  eyes 
That  look  on  it  !  the  diverse  things  they  see. 
According  to  their  thirst  for  fruit  or  flowers  ! 
Pass  on  ;  it  is  the  truth  seek  we. 

When  we  come  to  the  difhcult  question  as 
to  which  is  the  best,  or  even  which  are  the 
best,  of  George  Meredith's  novels,  each  must 
answer  only  for  himself.  The  present  writer 
would  have  it  that  the  three  most  masterly 

270 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

books  are  Rhoda  Fleming,  The  Egoist,  and 
Beauchamp's  Career,  and  that  those  which 
at  all  times  he  can  read  with  ever  new  delight, 
in  a  word  his  favourites,  are  The  Ordeal  of 
Richard  Feverel,  The  Egoist,  Diana  of  the 
Crossways,  and,  speaking  personally  rather 
than  critically.  The  Amazing  Marriage. 
There  can  be  little  question,  I  fancy,  that 
The  Egoist  stands  foremost  in  intellectual 
power.  It  is  the  most  searchingly  brilliant 
book  in  the  language.  It  is  equally  easy  to 
understand  why  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel  and  Diana  of  the  Crossways  are  the 
most  widely  popular.  In  literary  beauty, 
perhaps  Vittoria  is  the  most  sustained  in 
excellence  of  picturesque  and  vivid  style. 
In  every  one  of  these  books  is  a  practically 
inexhaustible  store  of  wisdom,  poignant  in- 
sight, illuminating  wit,  and  the  inexhaustible 
sanity  of  a  supreme  gift  of  humour, 

I  wonder  how  many  marked  copies  of 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  are  in  existence. 
Every  one  I  know  who  owns  the  book,  has 
special  passages  marked  for  remembrance, 
suggestiveness,  stimulus.  For  a  readily  un- 
derstandable reason  it  appeals  to  women 
in  particular  ;  doubtless  because  here  more 
luminously  and  continuously  than  in  any 
other  of  his  books,  George  Meredith  shows 

271 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

his  deep  sympathy  with,  and  comprehension 
of,  the  nature  of  women.  Here  are  a  few 
passages  worthy  of  note  : 

"  What  a  woman  thinks  of  women  is  the 
test  of  her  nature." 

"  He  had  by  nature  a  tarnishing  eye  that 
cast  discoloration." 

"  The  young  who  avoid  the  region  of 
romance  escape  the  title  of  fool  at  the  cost 
of  a  celestial  crown." 

"  To  have  the  sense  of  the  eternal  in  life 
is  a  short  flight  for  the  soul.  To  have  had 
it  is  the  soul's  vitality." 

"  Gossip  is  a  beast  of  prey  that  does  not 
wait  for  the  death  of  the  creature  it  devours." 

"  She  was  a  lady  of  incisive  features, 
bound  in  stale  parchment.  Complexion  she 
had  none,  but  she  had  spotlessness  of  skin, 
and  sons  and  daughters  just  resembling  her, 
like  cheaper  editions  of  a  precious  quarto  of 
a  perished  type." 

"  Why  she  married  him  she  never  told. 
Possibly  in  amazement  at  herself  she  forgot 
the  specific  reason." 

And  this  pre-eminently  characteristic 
phrase  :  "  Philosophy  bids  us  see  that  we 
are  not  so  pretty  as  rose-pink,  nor  so  re- 
pulsive as  dirty-drab  ;  and  that  instead  of 
everlastingly  shifting  those  barren  aspects, 

272 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

the  sight  of  ourselves  is  wholesome,  bearable, 
fructifying,  finally  a  delight." 

Everywhere  there  is  the  same  convincing 
wisdom  of  insight  and  observation.  Meredith 
has  been  called  the  supreme  interpreter  of 
women  ;  he  is  not  less  notable  as  a  true 
elder  brother  to  all  men  who  think  as  well  as 
do.  On  that  ever  moot  question  of  what 
women  are  to  men,  what  wiser  saying  than 
this  in  The  Egoist :  "  Women  have  us  back 
to  the  condition  of  primitive  man,  or  they 
shoot  us  higher  than  the  topmost  star. 
But  it  is  as  we  please  ;  the  poet's  Lesbia,  the 
poet's  Beatrice.  They  are  to  us  what  we 
hold  of  best  or  worst  within." 

It  is  not  only  in  what  are  admittedly  his 
greatest  novels,  that  his  intellectual  wealth 
is  distributed  with  the  same  royal  largesse. 
In  Tho  Tragic  Comedians,  in  the  too 
laboured  One  of  Our  Conquerors,  in  the 
infinitely  winsome  Amazing  Marriage,  in 
a  word  in  everything  from  Farina  and  The 
Shaving  of  Shagpat,  to  Lord  Ormont  and  his 
Aminta  and  The  House  on  the  Beach,  there 
is  the  ceaseless  record  of  the  keenest  in- 
telligence of  our  epoch.  The  strength  in  all 
is  spiritual  strength.  As  he  says  in  The 
Tragic  Comedians,  "it  is  the  soul  which 
does  things  in  life  ;  the  rest  is  vapour." 

Ill  273  S 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

As  a  poet  Meredith  appeals  to  two  classes 
of  readers  ;    to  those  who  love  poetry  for 
its  beauty,  and  to  those  who  love  it  for  its 
rarefied    and    difficult   heights    where   only 
strong-winged  intellects  can  soar  or  sustain 
their  flight.     But  in  all  probability  his  most 
enduring  work  in  verse  will  be  that  wherein 
the  vision  of  beauty,  or  rather  the  faculty  of 
seeing  and  saying  in  beauty  what  revelation 
or  sudden  glimpse  of  all  beauty  has  been 
perceived,  is  the  overmastering  characteristic 
rather  than  those  poems  which  are  mainly 
an  allure  or  appeal  to  the  intellect.     And 
here  it  is,  it  seems  to  me,  as  to  others  who 
love  his  earlier  poetry,  that  he  stands  far 
higher  than  is  commonly  recognised.     There 
is  no  more  moving  love-tragedy  in  verse  in 
the  language   than  his   Modern  Love ;    no 
more  splendid  and  barbaric  chant  than  the 
Nuptials  of  Attila  ;  and  I  know  of  no  nature 
poems  more  beautiful  and  more  convincing, 
both  in  music  and  in  essential  vision  and 
atmosphere.     What    lovely    music    in    that 
passionate    lyrical    rhapsody,    Love    in    the 
Valley,  something  of  whose  magic  retains  in 
even  a  few  severed  lines  : 

Fairer  than  the  lily,  than  the  wild  white  cherry  : 
Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  appears 

274 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Borne  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at  my  eyelids  : 

Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on  tears. 
Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 

I  would  speak  my  heart  out  :  heaven  is  my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dogwood, 

Flashing   like    the   whitebeam,    swaying   like   the 
reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October  ; 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  South-West  blown  ; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  stidden-lighted  whitebeam  ; 

All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone. 

The  Lark  Ascending,  The  South-West 
Wind,  Autumn  Even-song,  The  Woods  of 
Westermain,  and  a  score  other  matchless 
lyrics  and  longer  poems  .  .  .  are  their 
names  not  familiar  to  all  who  love  beautiful 
verse  ?  What  living  poet  has  written  more 
exquisitely  than  in  these  lines  from  one  of 
the  lesser  known  poems  {Grandfather  Bridge- 
man)  ; 

The  day  was  a  van-bird  of  summer  ;   the  robin  still 

piped,  but  the  blue 
A    warm   and   dreary   palace   with   voices   of  larks 

ringing  through. 
Looked  down  as  if  wistfully  eyeing  the  blossoms  that 

fell  from  its  lap  ; 
A   day  to  sweeten  the  juices,  a  day  to  quicken  the 

sap. 
All   round   the    shadowy    orchard    sloped   meadows 

in  gold,  and  the  dear 
Shy  violets  breathed  their  hearts   out — the  maiden 

breath  of  the  year. 

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George  Meredith  :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Surely  verse  like  this  is  the  justification  of 
his  own  fine  saying  :  "  the  art  of  the  pen  is 
to  arouse  the  inward  vision,  instead  of 
labouring  with  a  drop-scene  brush,  as  if  it 
were  to  the  eye  ;  because  our  flying  minds 
cannot  contain  a  protracted  description. 
That  is  why  the  poets  who  spring  imagina- 
tion with  a  word  or  a  phrase,  paint  lasting 
pictures." 

Although  much  of  George  Meredith's 
poetry,  as  most  of  his  prose,  is  in  the  con- 
ventional sense  impersonal,  in  so  far  as  it 
reflects  his  spiritual  and  intellectual  rather 
than  his  actual  life  of  the  day  and  hour, 
there  are  many  glimpses  of  the  latter.  Per- 
haps none  of  his  shorter  poems  is  at  once 
more  pleasantly  intimate  and  at  the  same 
time  characteristically  fine  in  individuality 
of  observation  and  touch  than  the  little  lyric 
called  Autumn  Even-song,  where  the  wood- 
lands, "  the  yellow  hill,"  the  steel-gleaming 
river,  the  "  valley-cottage  "  with  its  warm 
light,  are  those  which  are  daily  familiar 
to  the  eyes  and  heart  of  the  great  writer. 

The  long  cloud  edged  with  streaming  gray 

Soars  from  the  west  ; 
The  red  leaf  mounts  with  it  away. 

Showing  the  nest 
A  blot  among  the  branches  bare  : 
There  is  a  cry  of  outcasts  in  the  air. 
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George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Swift  little  breezes,  darting  chill, 

Part  down  the  lake  ; 
A  crow  flies  from  the  yellow  hill. 

And  in  its  wake 
A  baffled  line  of  labouring  rooks  ; 
Steel -surfaced  to  the  light  the  river  looks. 

Pale  the  rain-rutted  roadways  shine 

In  the  green  light. 
Behind  the  cedar  and  the  pine  : 

Come,  thundering  night  ! 
Blacken  broad  earth  with  hoards  of  storm  ! 
For  me  yon  valley-cottage  beckons  warm. 

But  it  is  probably  by  Modern  Love  that 
Meredith  has  won  his  way  to  the  laurel- 
wreath  of  his  fellows  in  poetry.  "This 
great  processional  poem,"  as  Mr.  Swinburne 
has  called  it,  tells  in  fifty  stanzaic  poems  of 
a  sonnet-kind  (sonnets  essentially,  in  com- 
pression, self-completeness,  and  unity  of 
beauty,  idea,  and  effect — though  not  tech- 
nically so)  the  story  or  the  tragic  mischance 
of  love  that  might  have  grown  to  finest 
issues  but  for  the  piteous  inward  fatality 
which  incurred  ruin  on  both  sides.  Modern 
Love  was  published  at  a  memorable  period 
in  the  history  of  English  poetry  :  four  years 
after  William  Morris'  first  and,  in  some  ways, 
most  remarkable  volume,  and  one  year  later 
than  Rossetti's  first  book  (The  Early  Italian 
Poets)   and   Swinburne's   first   book.     It   is 

277 


George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

doubtful  if  there  be  any  single  modern  poem 
which  has  had  so  profound  an  influence  in 
moulding  the  spiritual  temper  of  the 
strongest  and  finest  minds  among  the 
younger  generation.  There  must  be  many 
who  concur  with  the  present  writer  in 
ranking  Modern  Love  and  Rossetti's  House 
of  Life  as  among  the  very  finest  legacies  of 
poetic  genius  left  to  us  in  the  latter  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century. 

For  those  who  do  not  know  Modern 
Love,  I  may  quote  two  of  the  wonderful 
series  :  the  first  for  its  flawless  beauty  ;  the 
second  for  its  deep  humanity,  its  profound 
indication  of  what  is  most  characteristic  in 
the  genius  of  this  fearless  explorer  into 
"  Earth's  great  venture,  man."  (Both  are 
given  as  in  the  version  of  the  Collected 
Edition.) 

XLVII. 

We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky, 
A  nd  in  the  osier-isle  we  heard  them  noise. 
We  had  not  to  look  hack  on  summer  joys, 
Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye  : 
But  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth 
Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side  ; 
The  hour  became  her  husband  and  my  bride. 
Love  that  had  robbed  us  so,  thus  blessed  our  dearth  ! 
The  pilgrims  of  the  year  waxed  very  loud 
In  multitudinous  chatterings ,  as  the  flood 
Full  brown  cam,efrom  the  West,  and  like  pale  blood 

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George  Meredith :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

Expanded  to  the  upper  crimson  cloud. 

Love  that  had  robbed  us  of  immortal  things. 

This  little  moment  mercifully  gave  : 

Where  I  have  seen  across  the  twilight  wave  .  ,  . 

The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her  wings. 

XLIII. 

Mark  where  the  pressing  wind  shoots  javelin-like. 
Its  skeleton  shadow  on  the  broad-backed  wave  ! 
Here  is  a  fitting  spot  to  dig  Love's  grave  ; 
Here   when   the   ponderous   breakers   plunge   and 

strike, 
And  dart  their  hissing  tongues  high  up  the  sand  : 
In  hearing  of  the  ocean,  and  in  sight 
Of  those  ribb'd  wind-streaks  running  into  white. 
If  I  the  death  of  Love  had  deeply  planned, 
I  never  could  have  made  it  half  so  sure. 
As  by  the  unblest  kisses  which  upbraid 
The  full-waked  sense  ;  or,  failing  that,  degrade  ! 
'Tis  morning  :  but  no  morning  can  restore 
What  we  have  forfeited.     I  see  no  sin  : 
The  wrong  is  mixed.     In  tragic  life,  God  wot, 
No  villain  need  be  !     Passions  spin  the  plot  : 
We  are  betrayed  by  what  is  false  within. 

Perhaps  the  finest  of  George  Meredith's 
longer  lyrical  poems  is  the  noble  Hymn  to 
Colour.  It  is  the  work  of  a  poet  of  the 
highest  imagination  :  it  is  alive  in  every 
line,  in  every  image,  in  every  uplifted 
thought  :  it  has  an  austere  beauty,  a  grave 
ecstasy,  such  as  characterises  Wordsworth's 
greatest  poem,  the  Ode  to  Duty  ;  and  in  it  is 

279 


George  Meredith  :  an  Estimate  of  his  Work 

the  concentrated  knowledge  and  spiritual 
vision  of  a  long  and  noble  life.  I  may 
fittingly  end  this  short  appreciation  with 
quotation  of  the  last  stanza,  with  its 
magnificent  close,  animate  with  the  pro- 
foundest  spiritual  hope  we  have. 

The  song  had  ceased  ;  my  vision  with  the  song. 
Then  of  those  Shadows,  which  one  made  descent 
Beside  me  I  knew  not  ;  hut  Life  ere  long 
Came  on  me  in  the  public  ways  and  bent 
Eyes  deeper  than  of  old  :  Death  met  I  too. 
And  saio  the  dawn  glow  through. 


280 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

(1901) 

Forty  years  ago  the  keener-sighted  among 
the  critics  of  the  day  recognised  that  a  new 
poet  had  sounded  a  fresh  if  admittedly  an 
unequal  note  in  the  music  of  English  verse. 
To-day  The  Queen-Mother  and  Rosamund  are 
little  read ;  partly,  no  doubt,  because  of  the 
rarity  of  the  slim  volume  which  has  long 
been  out  of  print.  But  within  five  years  of 
its  publication  a  common  recognition  agreed 
that  English  Poetry  was  enriched  by  a  new 
and  potent  genius  ;  a  poet  for  whom  one  of 
the  highest  contemporary  places  was  certain, 
and  who  might  well  prove  to  be  of  the  few 
who  do  not  pass  with  their  period  and  vogue 
but  are  for  time  and  literature.  For  in 
1865  Atalanta  in  Calydon  was  published. 

More  than  thirty-five  years  have  passed 
since  the  appearance  of  this  lyrical  drama. 
It  is  a  period  wherein  the  mature  genius 
of  Tennyson,  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Rossetti,   William   Morris,   gave  royally  to 

281 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

our  literature  :  wherein  the  brilliant  later 
Victorian  poetry  flowered  in  unequalled 
fertility.  Nothing  of  all  this  accomplish- 
ment better  stands  the  test  of  time,  change 
and  comparative  criticism  than  Swinburne's 
early  masterpiece. 

Neiv  things,  and  never  this  best  thing  again  ; 
Seasons  and  song,  but  no  song  more  like  mine. 

That  this  masterpiece  should  be  the  work 
of  youth,  of  a  writer  in  his  "twenties,"  is  a 
surprise  to  which  we  can  never  become 
accustomed. 

Few  of  our  great  writers,  either  in  prose 
or  verse,  have  been  born  in  London.  Two 
notable  instances,  however,  are  those  of 
Robert  Browning  and  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne.  But  whereas  Browning  was  in 
all  respects  a  Londoner  and  the  child  of 
Londoners,  it  was  a  mere  chance  that  the 
younger  poet  was  not  born  in  the  North 
Country,  in  the  Northumberland  of  his 
people.  In  that  North-Sea  province  the 
Swinburnes  are  an  old-established  family  ; 
even  so  far  back  as  the  time  of  Henry  IIL 
one  Sir  William  de  Swinburne  was  a 
Northumbrian  to  be  reckoned  with.  The 
name  is  probably  one  of  the  oldest  of 
Northumbrian  clan-names  :    unquestionably 

282 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

the  Swinburnes  of  Swinburne  belonged  to 
the  native  noblesse.  In  the  time  of  Edward 
II.  the  direct  line  ended  with  Adam  de 
Swinburne  :  and  after  a  lapse  we  hear  of  his 
kinsman,  Sir  William,  but  of  Swinburne 
Castle  no  more.  The  family  seat  is  now,  as 
it  has  so  long  been,  Capheaton  Castle  :  there 
the  present  head  of  the  family,  Sir  John 
Swinburne,  resides  :  and  there  and  in  the 
neighbourhood,  his  cousin,  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne,  spent  much  of  his  boyhood. 

The  poet's  father,  the  late  Admiral 
Charles  Swinburne,  was  the  second  son  of 
Sir  John  Edward  Swinburne  :  he  married 
Lady  Henrietta  Jane,  daughter  of  the  third 
Earl  of  Ashburnham  :  and  their  eldest 
child,  born  in  London  on  April  5,  1837,  is 
the  subject  of  the  present  memoir.  As  the 
Ashburnham  family  is  also  of  pre-Conquest 
days,  Swinburne  may  certainly  claim  to  be 
of  the  oldest  blood  in  the  country. 

Of  the  boyhood  and  early  youth  of  the 
poet  little  is  known,  except  to  a  limited 
circle  of  friends.  Much  of  it  was  spent 
in  an  intimate,  at  times  an  impassioned 
communion  with  nature,  and  in  particular 
the  sensitive  and  imaginative  boy  was 
early  subject  to  the  spell  of  the  wind  and 
the  sea,  the  two  elemental  forces  which  are 

283 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

echoed,  reflected,  and  interpreted  through- 
out his  poetry.  Above  all  other  poets  of 
our  country,  or  of  any  country,  Swinburne 
is  the  poet  of  the  sea.  The  sound  and 
colour  of  the  moving  wave  live  in  almost 
every  poem  he  has  given  us,  .  .  . 

The  sea,  that  harbours  in  her  heart  sublime 
The  supreme  heart  of  music  deep  as  time, 
And  in  her  spirit  strong 
The  spirit  of  all  imaginable  song* 

In  his  earliest  prose  writing — his  im- 
passioned rejoinder  to  the  hostile  outcry 
against  Poems  and  Ballads — Swinburne 
alludes  to  Sappho's  poetic  fragments  as 
"  akin  to  fire  and  air,  being  themselves 
'  all  air  and  fire  '  :  other  element  there  is 
none  in  them."  Of  his  own  work,  it  might 
well  be  said  that  the  sound  and  beauty  of 
the  sea,  the  voice  and  prophesying  of  the 
wind,  are  the  elemental  and  dominant  forces. 

And  since  allusion  has  been  made  to  his 
prose  writings  let  me  give  here  a  passage 
from  the  Essay  on  Wordsworth  and  B3^ron 
{Miscellanies)  which  might  be  written  of 
his  own  achievement  in  poetry  : 

The  test  of  the  highest  poetry  is  that  it  eludes 
all  tests.     Poetry  in  which  there  is  no  element  at 

*  Loch  Torridon.     {Astrophel.) 
284 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

once  perceptible  and  indefinable  by  any  reader  or 
hearer  of  any  poetic  instinct  may  have  every  other 
good  quality  ...  it  is  not  poetry — above  all,  it 
is  not  lyric  poetry — of  the  first  water.  There 
must  be  something  in  the  mere  progress  and 
resonance  of  the  words,  some  secret  in  the  very 
motion  and  cadence  of  the  lines,  inexplicable  by 
the  most  sympathetic  acuteness  of  criticism. 
Analysis  may  be  able  to  explain  how  the  colours 
of  this  flower  of  poetry  are  created  and  combined, 
but  never  by  what  process  its  odour  is  produced. 

For  the  poet  ...  for  every  artist,  but 
perhaps  for  the  poet  above  all  .  .  .  there 
is  no  period  so  important,  no  education 
so  vital  and  enduring,  as  the  period  between 
the  merging  of  childhood  into  boyhood 
and  the  merging  of  boyhood  into  manhood, 
as .  the  education  learned  at  first  hand,  in 
idle  freedom,  under  the  tutelage  of  the 
wind  and  the  sun.  In  this  early  wisdom, 
the  boy-poet  (for  he  began  to  compose 
verse  while  yet  a  child)  learned  deeply, 
and,  as  his  work  shows,  unforgettably. 
Possibly  too  it  was  during  the  long  pony- 
rides  of  his  boyhood  in  Northumberland  that 
the  young  Swinburne  first  came  to  dwell  upon 
the  contrast  between  the  character  and  fate 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  and  the 
character  and  fate  of  Queen  Mary  of 
Scotland  :  for  in  the  little  village  of  Cambo, 

285 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

at  the  top  of  the  mile-long  ascent  from 
Wallington,  the  inn  of  the  Two  Queens  had 
a  swinging  signboard  on  whose  south  side 
was  depicted  the  face  of  Elizabeth  and  on 
whose  north  "  the  proud  eyes "  of  the 
Queen  o'  Scots. 

More,  too,  than  from  any  tutor  or 
"  schooling  "  he  learned  from  his  mother 
much  that  was  to  influence  him,  and 
notably  his  love  of  Italy,  its  language, 
literature,  and  history.  Shelley,  Keats, 
Byron,  Landor,  Browning,  Swinburne,  each 
differing  in  so  much,  have  shown  themselves 
at  one  in  a  common  love  ;  but  none  save 
the  sixth  knew  and  loved  Italy  and  the 
Italian  genius  in  boyhood.  Lady  Henrietta 
Ashburnham  had  been  educated  in  Florence, 
and  then  and  later  spent  much  of  her  life 
there,  and  her  love  was  doubtless  the  torch 
that  lit  the  flame  in  her  son's  mind  which 
reached  to  so  great  a  height  in  Songs  Before 
Sunrise  and  the  Songs  of  Two  Nations. 

To  William  Bell  Scott,  had  he  been  as 
capable  with  the  brush  and  etching-needle 
as  with  the  pen,  every  lover  of  our  literature 
would  be  indebted :  for  it  is  to  him  we  owe 
the  earliest  but  unfortunately  grotesquely 
exaggerated  portrait  of  Swinburne  as  a 
young    man,    i.e.    in    i860,    when    he    was 

286 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

twenty-two,  and  had  just  published  his 
first  book.  Of  this  portrait  Scott  writes 
in  his  Notes  : 

In  i860,  when  his  first  drama  was  published, 
I  painted  a  small  portrait  of  him  in  oil  (afterwards 
etched).  He  used  to  come  in  and  live  with  us  in 
Newcastle,  and  when  I  was  out  or  engaged  he  was 
to  be  seen  lying  before  the  fire  with  a  mass  of 
books  surrounding  him  like  the  ruins  of  a  fortifica- 
tion, all  of  which  he  had  read,  and  could  quote  or 
criticise  correctly  and  acutely  many  years  after. 
This  portrait  (of  himself)  used  to  arrest  him  long 
afterwards,  when  he  visited  me,  as  if  it  was  new  to 
him.  He  was  delighted  to  find  it  had  some 
resemblance  to  what  he  called  his  portrait  in  the 
National  Gallery.  This  was  the  head  of  Galeazzo 
Malatesta  in  the  picture  of  the  Battle  of  Sant' 
Egidio  by  Uccello,  which  certainly  was  not  merely 
the  same  type,  but  was  at  this  time  exceedingly 
like  him. 

A  good  portrait  of  the  poet,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  beautiful  painting,  is  the 
"  head  "  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  painted 
in  the  early  sixties.  Here,  with  some 
allowance  for  Rossetti's  very  individual 
vision  and  method,  is  the  best  early  likeness 
we  have  of  the  author  of  Atalanta  in  Calydon, 
after  the  remarkable  portrait  made  about 
this  time  by  G.  F.  Watts.  It  should  be 
added  that  another  excellent  early  likeness 
is   in   the   stooping   head   of   a   picture   by 

287 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Rossetti  now  in  the  posession  of  Mr.  Watts - 
Dunton.  There  is  also  a  "  hinted  "  portrait 
in  Rossetti's  well-known  drawing  of  Mary 
Magdalene  at  the  Door  of  Simon  the 
Pharisee. 

From  Eton  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 
went  to  Oxford.  There  is  no  published 
record  of  his  career  at  Balliol.  Rumour 
says  that  he  was  diligent  in  all  intellectual 
efforts  save  those  conventionally  required 
of  him  :  a  variation  adds  that  despite 
his  familiarity  with  Greek  and  Latin  he 
was  "  ploughed "  because  he  failed  in 
"  Scripture  "  :  at  any  rate  he  departed 
from  Oxford  without  taking  his  degree. 
He  left  the  University,  however,  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  powers  beyond  those 
of  other  men,  and  that  he  had  it  in  him  to 
become  a  great  poet  :  and  he  left  it  rich  in 
the  promise  of  life,  for  he  had  already 
made  the  intimate  acquaintance  of  three 
men  who  were  to  be  lifelong  friends  as  well 
as  rivals  in  genius,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 
(who  was  then  painting  the  frescoes  on  the 
walls  of  the  "  Union "),  William  Morris, 
and  Edward  Burne-Jones. 

The  influence  of  these  friendships  is 
unmistakable  in  the  early  work  of  Algernon 
Swinburne.     It  would  have  been  impossible 

288 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

for  any  imaginative  and  responsive  nature 
not  to  be  influenced  by  Rossetti,  and  it  is 
to  Rossetti  above  all  others  that  the 
younger  poet  owed  that  turning  towards 
essential  romance  in  life  and  art  which  gave 
so  rich  a  glow  to  the  Poems  and  Ballads. 
In  another  phase  of  poetic  thought  and 
artistry,  Morris  exercised  only  a  lesser,  if 
perhaps  a  more  immediate  and  obvious 
influence.  It  is  as  evident  in  Poems  and 
Ballads,  as  that  of  Browning  is  in  Rosamund. 
Something  of  the  young  poet's  indebtedness 
to  the  young  painter  Burne-Jones  may  be 
inferred  from  the  circumstance  of  the 
dedication  of  the  more  famous  volume,  in 
stanzas  not  only  of  great  beauty  but  of 
singular  aptness.  .  . 

In  a  land  of  clear  colours  and  stories. 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours, 
Where  earth  has  a  garment  of  glories, 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers  ; 
In  woods  where  the  spring  half  uncovers 

The  flush  of  her  amorous  face. 
By  the  waters  that  listen  for  lovers, 

For  these  is  there  place  ? 

*  ■if  *  *  * 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands  he  more  gracious 

And  lovelier  in  lordship  of  things 
Clothed  round  by  sweet  art  with  the  spacious 

Warm  heaven  of  her  imminent  wings, 
III  289  T 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Let  them  enter  unfledged  and  nigh  fainting 
For  the  love  of  old  loves  and  lost  times  ; 

And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 
This  revel  of  rhymes. 

From  Oxford  Algernon  Swinburne  went  for 
a  brief  while  to  London,  and  then  passed 
some  time  at  his  father's  beautiful  place  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  East  Dene  near  Bonchurch, 
on  the  seaward  slope  of  St.  Boniface  Down. 
In  Bonchurch  graveyard  are  the  graves  of 
the  poet's  father  and  mother  :  but  for 
other  reasons  also  East  Dene  and  its  lovely 
neighbourhood  are  sacred  to  Swinburne. 
Between  Bonchurch  and  the  western  side 
of  Ventnor  is  one  of  the  loveliest  coast- 
tracts  in  England,  and  here  the  young  poet 
spent  many  of  his  happiest  days.  A 
relative  by  marriage.  Sir  Henry  Gordon 
(who  had  married  the  poet's  aunt, 
Lady  Mary  Ashburnham),  had  a  beautiful 
house  and  grounds  on  the  Undercliff  between 
St.  Catherine's  Point  and  Blackgang  Chine  : 
and  here,  and  at  East  Dene,  by  the  pine- 
shadowed  rocky  slopes  and  grassy  hollows 
of  that  sunny  sea-washed  region,  many  of 
the  poems  long  so  familiar  to  us  were 
written.  One  of  these,  in  flawless  music, 
The  Forsaken  Garden,  was  inspired  by  and 
written  near  Old  Bonchurch. 

290 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

In  the  same  year  that  he  left  Oxford 
Swinburne  went  abroad,  to  the  Italy  he 
already  loved  so  well :  and  here  he  made  a 
new  memorable  friendship.  After  Victor 
Hugo  no  contemporary  had  more  of  his 
reverence  and  admiration  than  Walter 
Savage  Landor.  His  visit  to  the  old  poet 
at  his  villa  on  Fiesole  was,  for  the  younger, 
one  of  the  chief  events  at  the  outset  of  his 
literary  career  :  nor  did  he  ever  waver  in 
the  allegiance  so  signally  expressed  in  the 
dedication  of  the  first  mature  work  of  his 
genius,  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  To  this  visit 
we  owe  the  fine  quatrains  which  will  be 
found  in  that  volume,  with  their  significant 
lines,  "  the  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer, 
that  England  bore." 

On  his  return  to  London  Swinburne  took 
his  place  as  one  of  the  most  striking  and 
interesting  personalities  in  what  was  by 
far  the  most  significant  and  fascinating 
literary  group  then  leagued  by  common 
sympathies  and  ideals.  At  Oxford  his 
two  chief  friends  had  been  Burne-Jones 
and  John  Nichol  :  but  now  he  saw  little 
of  the  painter  who  was  afterwards  to  be- 
come so  famous,  and  Nichol  had  returned 
to  Scotland,  shortly  to  become  the  youngest 
University    professor    in    the    North.     This 

291 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

remarkable    man    never    fulfilled    the    rare 
promise  of  his  Oxford  days  :    for  though  he 
attained  eminence  both  as  a  poet  and  critic, 
and  as  Professor  of  Literature  at  Glasgow 
had  from  the  first  session  of  his  long  career 
a  notable  influence,  he  lacked  just  the  some- 
thing that  differentiates  the  most  brilliant 
intellect    from    the    creative    imagination. 
But  at  Oxford  it  was  commonly  believed 
that  of  the  younger  generation  of  that  day 
no  one  was  more  likely  to  achieve  fame  than 
the    brilliant    young    Scot,    with    his    fiery 
"  Berserker  "  nature  and  his  natural  impulse 
of   leadership.     It  was  Nichol  who  founded 
and  edited  a  college  magazine,  Undergraduate 
Papers,   now  so  extremely  rare  that   only 
a    few    copies    are    known    to    exist.     Its 
literary  value,  however,  has  been  grotesquely 
overrated.     It  is,  of  course,  interesting  to 
note  that   so  early  as  in  1857  the  future 
author  of  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  was  occupied, 
as  a  theme  for  his  imagination,   with  the 
story  of  Queen  Iseult  :    but  in  the  twenty- 
five    tercets    which    appeared    under    John 
Nichol's  editorship  there  are  at  most  only 
some  half-dozen  lines  which  reveal  the  poet, 
and  these  might  as  well  have  been  written 
by  Nichol  or  any  other  of  the  young  men 
who  at  that  time  were  under  the  spell  of 

292 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

the  newcomers,  Rossetti  and  Morris.  Nor 
is  more  than  a  passing  notice  called  for  of 
Swinburne's  first  piece  of  imaginative  prose 
— the  short  tale  called  Dead  Love  which 
with  a  charming  illustration  by  Lawless 
appeared  in  Once-A-Week  in  October  1862. 
This  piece  of  quaint  medictvalism  in  the 
manner  of  William  Morris's  short  stories 
of  Arthurian  Chivalry  was  afterwards  re- 
printed in  London  in  1864,  but  is  now  so 
rare  that  only  three  copies  of  the  original 
edition  are  known  to  exist. 

But  all  this,  with  other  minor  "  Under- 
graduate "  contributions,  amounted  to  no 
more  than  the  "  cacoethes  scribendi  "  of 
the  ordinary  literature-loving  undergraduate. 
What  is  of  interest  is  that  before  Swin- 
burne left  Oxford  he  had  already  begun  to 
write  verse  with  beauty,  distinction,  and 
the  first  unmistakable  notes  of  a  music 
that  he  has  made  his  own.  The  Queen- 
Mother  and  Rosamund  are  youthful  pro- 
ductions, but  in  Chastelard  we  have  the 
evidence  of  a  genius  as  unique  as  potent. 
Swinburne  has  himself  put  on  record 
(in  his  Notes  on  the  character  of  Queen 
Mary)  that  he  wrote  Chastelard  in  the  last 
year  of  his  life  as  an  undergraduate. 

On   his   return    from    Italy,    full    of   en- 

293 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


"6 


thusiasm  for  Landor  and  more  than  ever 
captivated  by  the  spirit  of  freedom  animat- 
ing his  heroes  Mazzini,   Aureho  Saffi,  and 
Victor  Hugo,  Swinburne  settled  in  London. 
For   a   time  he   shared  with   Rossetti   and 
George   Meredith   a   house   overlooking  the 
Thames  :    though  of  one  co-tenant  he  saw 
very   little,   for    Meredith   was    seldom    at 
Chatham    House,    and    as    for    the    other, 
his  own  habits  and  those  of  Rossetti  differed 
so  much  that  the  two  friends,  though  much 
in  sympathy,  had  little  actual  communion. 
It  was  at  this  time  that  Rossetti  painted  the 
beautiful    portrait    to    which    allusion    has 
already  been  made  :    and  in  the  face  of  the 
young  poet,  as  delineated  by  his  friend  and 
compeer,  it  is  impossible  to  ignore  the  look 
of    an    exceptional    individuality    and    of 
conscious  power.     When  this  brief  co-part- 
nery  ended,  the  youngest  of  the  three  friends 
occupied  rooms  elsewhere  in  London  ;    in 
North  Crescent,  Great  James  Street  for  a 
considerable    time,    and    later    in    Guilford 
Street  ;     varying    residence    in    town    with 
occasional  visits  to  Holmwood  near  Reading 
(whither  the  family  home,  after  the  death 
of  his  father,  had  been  moved),  or  to  the 
East  Coast,  or  to  the  shores  of  Normandy — 
where  once  (at  Etretat)  he  had  a  narrow 

294 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

o 

escape  from  drowning,  having  in  one  of  his 
adventurous  swims  been  caught  in  a  danger- 
ous current  and  saved  by  some  fishermen 
when  almost  at  the  last  gasp — an  event 
recorded  in  the  poem  entitled  Ex  Voio. 

Through  Burne-Jones  the  young  poet 
made  another  friendship,  with  G.  F.  Watts, 
afterwards  to  become  so  famous  as  a  painter 
and  then  already  accepted  as  a  master ; 
and  to  this  we  owe  the  best -known  (and  by 
some  friends  considered  the  most  like)  of 
all  portraits  of  Swinburne. 

After  the  publication  of  Bothwell  in  1874 
and  of  Erechtheus  in  1876  the  poet's  health 
gave  way  under  the  stress  of  his  too  strenuous 
life,  and  shortly  after  the  publication  of 
the  second  series  of  Poems  and  Ballads 
(1878)  he  decided  to  leave  London  and 
settle  in  some  quiet  region  within  reach  of 
and  yet  sufficiently  remote  from  the  metro- 
polis. Too  shaken  in  health  to  undertake 
this  alone,  he  was  accompanied  by  his 
devoted  friend,  Theodore  Watts,  already 
the  foremost  literary  critic  of  his  day 
(Rossetti's  "  friend  of  friends  " — to  intro- 
duce here,  with  adequate  excuse  I  hope, 
the  poet-painter's  generous  phrase  con- 
cerning the  man  to  whom  of  all  others  he 
certainly  had  most  reason  to  be  indebted), 

295 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

and  in  due  time,  under  his  later -assumed 
surname  of  Watts-Dunton,  to  become  so 
well-known  as  the  author  of  the  romance 
of  Aylwin  and  as  the  poet  of  The  Coming 
of  Love.  Theodore  Watts  fixed  upon  a  house 
with  a  long  garden,  called  "  The  Pines," 
on  Putney  Hill  near  Wimbledon  Common  ; 
and  there,  for  the  last  twenty-two  years, 
the  two  friends,  each  with  a  name  so  high 
in  contemporary  letters,  have  contentedly 
lived. 

When  Swinburne  left  Oxford  all  his 
friends  knew  that  to  no  ordinary  ambition 
he  united  powers  of  a  kind  which  were  to 
justify  the  faith  of  men  like  Rossetti  and 
Morris.  It  was  not  till  i860,  when  he  was 
in  his  twenty-third  year,  however,  that  he 
published  his  first  book,  comprising  the 
two  dramas.  The  Queen- Mother  and  Rosa- 
mund. The  book  has  long  been  out  of 
print,  and  the  author  has  never  cared  to 
reissue  it.  In  both  dramas  there  are 
continuous  pages  of  fine  rhetoric  and  many 
passages  of  true  poetry,  but  there  is  also 
much  of  immaturity  both  in  conception 
and  execution.  The  book  deserved  cordial 
recognition,  for  it  was  unquestionably  re- 
markable as  the  work  of  so  young  a  man. 

The    Queen -Mother   of   the   first   play   is 

296 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Catherine  de'  Medici,  and  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy  is  in  Paris  at  the  period  of  the 
Massacre  of  the  Innocents.  Possibly  it 
was  during  his  study  of  the  history  and 
personages  of  this  time  that  the  author 
became  fascinated  by  the  character  and 
tragic  fate  of  Mary  Stuart  :  though  as 
the  idea  of  a  play  on  the  fate  of  Chastelard 
had  occurred  to  him  in  early  youth  it  is 
as  probable  that  the  drama  of  The  Queen- 
Mother  was  a  later  outgrowth.  As  it  stands, 
The  Queen- Mother  is  almost  of  the  nature 
of  a  prelude  to  the  great  dramatic  cycle 
of  Mary  Stuart  to  which  Swinburne  gave 
the  best  years  of  his  early  and  middle 
manhood. 

The  Queen- Mother  and  Rosamund  was 
"  affectionately  inscribed  to  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti."  I  remember  Rossetti's  telling 
me  what  pleasure  he  had  in  this  first  book 
of  his  friend,  and  how  George  Meredith 
said  to  him  impatiently,  "  Wait  till  he 
mounts  his  own  horse,  and  then  you'll  see 
how  he'll  ride — further  than  any  of  us 
foresees,  I'll  be  bound." 

Swinburne  had  already  begun  to  feel 
dissatisfied  with  "  falling  into  line  "  with 
Morris  and  Rossetti,  and  at  no  time  was 
discipleship      to    Tennyson    or     Browning 

297 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

possible  for  him.     A  new  departure,   and 
in  more  directions  than  one,  was  silently 
being  prepared,  but  it  was  not   till   1865, 
when  he  was  twenty-seven,  that  he  published 
Atalanta    in    Calydon    and    at    once    took 
his  place  as  one  of  the  foremost  poets  of 
the  Victorian  age.     But  meanwhile  he  had 
also  written,  or  in  these  intervening  years 
wrote,   some   of   the   shorter   poems   which 
were  afterwards  to  become  so  famous  when 
issued    in    Poems    and    Ballads.     Rossetti, 
Morris,  Burne-Jones  and  others  had  copies 
of  several,  and  the  rumour  of  their  magical 
music   got    about,    and   the   small   English 
public  that  is  curious  about  new  beautiful 
things  in  the  art  of  words  began  to  speak 
of  "  this  young  poet  Swinburne."     Two  of 
these    pieces,    for    instance,    Laus    Veneris 
and  the  Hymn  to  Proserpine,  were  certainly 
written  not  later   than   1862,   for  W.   Bell 
Scott  has  given  in  a  few  vivid  lines  a  pic- 
ture of  the  author  in  connection  with  these 
poems.     About  Christmas  in  1682,  he  writes, 
he  and  his  wife  and  a  friend  were  going 
"to    the   wild    sea-coast    at   Tynemouth," 
from  Wallington,  for  a  holiday,  and  were 
just  about  to  start  when  "A.  C.  S.  suddenly 
appeared,    having    posted    from    Morpeth 
early  that  morning."     So  the  friends  went 

298 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

to  the  then  unfrequented  Tynemouth  sea- 
coast,  and  it  was  on  the  long  dunes  and 
sands  by  the  sea  that  the  young  poet  recited 
in  his  peculiar  chanting  voice  the  sonorous 
Hymn  to  Proserpine  and  the  not  less  musical 
quatrains  of  the  Laus  Veneris — "  with  the 
breaking  waves  running  the  whole  length 
of  the  long  level  sands  towards  Cullercoats, 
and  sounding  like  far-off  acclamations." 

So  though  no  book  succeeded  the  first 
volume  of  i860  until  the  appearance  of 
Atalanta  in  1865,  the  poet  had  been  at  work 
upon  three  books  which  were  to  take  a 
permanent  place  in  English  literature — 
Atalanta  in  Calydon,  Chastelard,  and  Poems 
and  Ballads. 

Besides  the  short  tale,  Dead  Love,  Swin- 
burne published  in  1864,  but  not  under  his 
name  nor  in  a  book  for  which  he  was  re- 
sponsible, a  very  strange  poem  or  dramatic 
allegory.  The  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure.  This 
was  contributed  to  the  fifth  chapter  of  a 
friend's  romance  entitled  The  Children  of 
the  Chapel  (where,  also,  are  other  frag- 
mentary pieces  by  the  same  pen),  but  it 
has  never  been  reprinted  by  the  author. 
From  reperusal  of  the  copy  before  me  I 
imagine  The  Pilgrimage  of  Pleasure  to  have 
been  inspired  by  Calderon's  Los  Encantos 

299 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

de  la  Culpa,  or  Fitzgerald's  translation  of  it, 
but  it  might  quite  well  be  that  the  English 
poet  had  at  that  time  never  read  Calderon 
either  in  the  original  or  in  translation. 
The  personcB  are  Pleasure,  Youth,  Life, 
Discretion,  Gluttony,  Vain  Delight,  Sapience 
and  Death  :  and  the  metrical  narrative 
is  correspondingly  strange  and  unexpected. 
The  style  for  the  most  part  is  archaic,  the 
metrical  invention  peculiar  and  effective. 
"  Gluttony  "  has  a  Rabelaisian  exuberance 
which  is  enhanced  by  his  gloating  delight 
in  old  savoury  names  of  "  delicates  and 
delights."  But  as  there  is  space  for  brief 
quotation  only,  the  following  will  give  some 
idea  of  the  movement  of  this  all  but  un- 
known poem  of  the  master  whose  every 
collected  line  is  familiar  to  his  admirers. 

Youth. 
Away  from  me,   thou  Sapience,   thou  noddy,   thou 

green  fool  ! 
What  ween  ye  I  be  as  a  little  child  in  school  ? 
Ye  are  as  an  old  crone  that  mooncth  by  a  fire, 
A  bob  with  a  chestnut  is  all  thine  heart's  desire. 
I  am  in  mine  habit  like  to  Bacchus  the  high  god, 
I  reck  not  a  rush  of  thy  rede  nor  of  thy  rod. 

Life. 
Bethink  thee,  good  Youth,  and  take  Sapience  to  thy 

wife, 
For  but  a  little  while  hath  a  man  delight  of  Life. 

300 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

I  am  as  a  flame  that  lighteth  thee  one  hour  ; 

She  hath  fruit  enow,  I  have  hut  a  fleeting  flower. 
*  *  *  * 

Youth. 

My  sweet  life  and  lady,  my  love  and  mine  heart's 

lief, 
One  kiss  of  your  fair  sweet  mouth  it  slayeth  all  men's 

gyief, 
One  sight  of  your  goodly  eyes  it  bringeth  all  men  ease. 

Gluttony. 
Ow,  I  would  I  had  a  nianchet  or  a  piece  of  cheese  ! 

Vain  Delight. 

Lo,  where  lurketh  a  lurdan  that  is  kinsman  of  mine  ; 
Ho,  Gluttony,  I  wis  ye  are  drunken  without  wine. 

Youth. 

We  have  gone  by  many  lands,  and  many  glorious 

ways. 
And  yet  have  we  not  found  this  Pleasure  all  these 

days. 
Sometimes  a  lightening  all  about  her  have  we  seen, 
A  glittering  of  her  garments  among  the  fields  green  ; 
Sometimes  the  waving  of  her  hair  that  is  right  sweet, 
A  lifting  of  her  eyelids,  or  a  shining  of  her  feet. 
Or  either  in  sleeping  or  in  walking  have  we  heard 
A  rustling  of  raiment  or  a  whispering  of  a  word. 
Or  a  noise  of  pleasant  water  running  over  a  waste 

place, 
Yet  have  I  not  beheld  her,  nor  known  her  very  face. 

When  in  1865  Swinburne  published  Atalanta 
in  Calydon  he  passed  at  once,  as  already 

^01 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

said,  to  the  front  rank  of  living  poets.  In 
this  superb  achievement  he  revealed  a 
mastery  of  metre  unequalled  since  Shelley 
and  Coleridge,  and  with  a  wider  and  surer 
range  and  more  sustained  power  than  shown 
even  by  the  greatest  of  our  lyrical  poets. 
Dedicated  to  Landor,  in  lines  of  pure  and 
beautiful  Greek,  the  whole  volume  has  that 
harmonious  completeness  which  is  part 
of  its  high  destiny.  It  had  a  welcome 
which  few  works  of  enduring  value  receive 
at  first;  and  though  naturally  the  "general 
reading  public  "  did  not  care  one  way  or 
the  other,  and  but  for  the  insistent  talk  and 
discussion  concerning  the  new  writer  would 
have  ignored  the  new  masterpiece  as  it 
would,  if  left  to  its  own  instinct,  ignore  all 
other  beautiful  work,  there  were  sufficient 
readers  to  give  the  book  even  from  the 
publisher's  standpoint  an  extraordinary  suc- 
cess. No  doubt  this  was  in  no  small  degree 
brought  about  by  the  emphatic  and  splendid 
eulogy  of  so  influential  a  critic  as  Monckton 
Milnes,  whose  prompt  article  on  Atalanta 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review  had  an  effect  at 
once  far  reaching  and  immediate. 

When  the  Prometheus  Unbound  was  given 
to  English  literature  it  was  realised  by  the 
few  who  then  understood  the  new  wealth 

302 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


"b 


of  beauty,  that  the  language  had  been 
proved  a  more  wonderful  instrument  than 
even  its  masters  had  foreseen,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  Coleridge  gave  it  that  elasticity 
and  grace  which  Tennyson  carried  to  ultra- 
refinement  and  Swinburne  to  unequalled 
metrical  variety  and  beauty.  But  Atalanta 
stands  as  unique  as  does  the  Prometheus. 
There  is  no  music  like  it  in  English  poetry. 
In  variety  of  metrical  invention  it  is  un- 
surpassed in  any  language,  and  yet  there  is 
no  sense  of  experimental  effort,  no  sense  of 
incongruity  or  strain,  no  sense  of  the 
fortuitous  or  hap-hazard.  The  music  is 
as  inevitable  and  natural  as  the  song  of 
thrush  or  nightingale,  and  if  as  incalculable 
as  the  wind,  owes  not  less  than  the  wind  to 
an  imperative  law.  There  is  not  a  page  of 
Atalanta  that  could  be  wished  away.  The 
blank  verse  is  a  triumph  in  a  language 
which  had  known  the  magic  use  of  Marlowe, 
Shakespeare,  Milton  and  Shelley.  The  lyri- 
cal measures  are  like  nothing  that  preceded 
them  in  English,  and  have  never  been 
approached  by  any  later  writer.  Perfect 
beauty  in  part  is  revealed  as  perfect  beauty 
in  the  whole.  In  all  that  makes  great 
■poeivy  Atalanta  in  Calydon  stands  as  perhaps 
the  supreme  instance  in  modern  literature. 

303 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

It  is,  however,  a  mistake  to  say,  as  is 
often  said,  that  this  noble  drama  is  a 
modern  example  of  the  Greek  genius. 
Atalanta  in  Calydon  is  not  a  Greek  drama, 
but  a  drama  on  a  Greek  theme  by  an 
English  poet,  inspired  by  love  and  knowledge 
of  the  Sophoclean  drama.  Even  in  Erech- 
theus,  which  more  closely  follows  the  Sopho- 
clean model,  Swinburne  is  not  a  Greek, 
but  an  English  poet  inspired  by  the  Greek 
ideal  and  Greek  beauty.  Throughout  all 
his  work,  from  Rosamund  to  Locrine,  from 
Chastelard  to  the  Tale  of  Balen,  he  reveals 
himself  to  be  as  essentially  English  as 
Shakespeare  or  Milton.  Many  of  his  con- 
temporaries have  written  on  Greek  themes 
in  the  Greek  manner — as  understood,  or 
as  feasible  now,  and  in  English — but  with 
the  possible  exception  of  the  one  rare 
achievement  of  Leicester  Warren  (the  late 
Lord  De  Tabley)  not  one  has  even  ap- 
proached the  Greek  originals  upon  which 
they  have  been  modelled.  Doubtless  Walter 
Savage  Landor  was  the  last  who  could 
have  achieved  the  all  but  impossible. 
Keats,  for  all  his  sunny  paganism,  was  not 
a  Greek  :  perhaps  just  because  of  this — 
for  no  stranger  misconception  exists  than 
the  idea  that   "  sunny  paganism  "   stands 

304 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

for  the  Greek  mind.  The  Greek  genius  was 
the  sanest  the  world  has  known ;  and 
sanity  includes  joyousness  and  "sunny 
paganism ;  "  but  it  also  includes  the 
piercing  vision  which  will  not  be  baffled 
and  the  austere  sadness  which  is  the  in- 
evitable colour  of  thought.  There  is  indeed 
much  "paganism"  in  Atalanta  in  Calydon 
and  Poems  and  Ballads,  but  it  can  hardly 
be  called  "  sunny."  The  beautiful  lines 
entitled  A  Lamentation  more  truly  repre- 
sent the  spirit  of  sad  world-wisdom  and 
bitter  weariness,  which  animate  Swin- 
burne's earlier  work,  than  the  anything 
but  sunny  however  debonair  "  revel  of 
rhymes  "  on  Faustine  and  Fragoletta,  on 
Felise  and  Dolores. 

The  tragic  beauty  of  the  legend  of  Althaea 
and  her  son  Meleager,  of  the  scourge  sent 
by  Artemis  and  of  the  heroism  of  Atalanta, 
the  hunting  of  the  terrible  boar  of  Calydon, 
and  the  untoward  slaying  of  Toxeus  and 
Plexippus  by  Meleager  with  the  swift - 
following  doom  involved — all  this  is  lifted 
from  the  vague  beauty  of  dimly  outlined 
legend  into  the  actual  beauty  of  rounded 
and  complete,  of  harmonious  and  con- 
summate art.  Although  Erechtheus  was 
not  written  till  ten  years  later  (and  published 

III  305  u 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

in  1876)  it  must  always  be  considered  along 
with  Atalanta.  Here  we  have  the  mature 
intellectual  expression  of  that  Hellenic 
enchantment  of  which  the  earlier  drama 
was  the  mature  rhythmic  expression.  To 
superb  diction  the  poet  unites  an  almost 
terrible  force  and  passion.  Here,  too,  the 
choruses  are  magnificent,  from  that  famous 
one  which  begins 

Who  shall  put  a  bridle  in  the  mourner's  lips  to 
chasten  them 

to  the  matchless  Oreithyia  chorus  be- 
ginning 

Out  of  the  north  wind  grief  came  forth, 
And  the  shining  of  a  sword  out  of  the  sea. 

And  yet  Erechtheus  has  never  had,  perhaps 
never  can  have,  either  the  spell  over  the 
love  or  the  spell  over  the  imagination 
exercised  by  its  predecessor.  Doubtless 
this  is  because  of  its  remoteness  from 
ordinary  human  emotion.  The  drama  might 
have  been  written  by  an  abstract  intelli- 
gence, uninfluenced  by  ordinary  human 
claims  and  needs.  Presumably  the  poet 
did  not  realise  this,  since  he  dedicated  the 
tragedy  to  his  mother  :  and  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  he  ranks  it  higher,  and  con- 
siders   it    with    more    pleasure    even,    than 

306 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Atalanta.  The  music  is  so  gravely  noble, 
the  construction  and  technical  excellence 
so  unsurpassable  in  kind,  the  poetry  so 
alive  with  the  flame  of  genius,  that,  for  a 
few,  Erechtheus  will  always  have  a  place 
apart,  an  achievement  on  the  remote  heights 
of  literature.  But,  for  most  readers,  it  is 
too  surcharged  with  the  terror  of  the 
irretrievable  and  the  relentless,  too  given 
over  to  the  cold  unappeasable  pitilessness 
of  the  divine  powers  who  do  the  will  of 
fate  :  in  it  rises  too  loudly  and  insistently 
"  the  confluent  surge  of  loud  calamities  " 
of  which  Erechtheus  speaks  in  that  wonder- 
ful opening  declamation  whose  dominant 
note  is 

And  what  they  will  is  more  than  our  desire, 
And  their  desire  is  more  than  what  we  will. 
For  no  man's  will  and  no  desire  of  man's 
Shall  stand  as  doth  a  god's  will 

I  do  not  think  it  is  too  much  to  say  that 
since  Sophocles  no  such  fate-surcharged 
dramatic  verse,  on  the  Greek  model  and  in 
the  Greek  tradition,  has  been  written  as, 
for  example,  the  pages  from  where  the 
Herald  of  Eumolpus  enters  with 

Old   men,   grey    borderers  on  the  march  of 
death 

307 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

to  the  advent  of  the  Athenian  Messenger 
with 

High  things  of  strong- souled  men  that  loved  their 
land 

after   the   close   of   the   magnificent   chorus 
beginning 

Many  loves  of  many  a  mood  and  many  a  kind 
Fill  the  life  of  man,  and  mould  the  secret  mind.  ,  . 

Atalanta  appeared  early  in  1865.  Before 
the  year  was  out,  Chastelard  (which,  as  will 
be  remembered,  was  written  or  at  least 
begun  in  the  author's  last  year  as  an  un- 
dergraduate at  Oxford)  was  also  published. 
The  two  dramas  are  as  different  as  two 
works  in  dramatic  form  could  be.  The 
difference  is  not,  as  often  averred,  between 
the  work  of  the  romanticist  and  that  of  the 
classicist.  The  "  classicism  "  of  Atalanta 
does  not  hide  the  "  romanticism  "  of  the 
author.  It  was  not  an  old-world  Greek 
but  a  modern  "  romanticist  "  who  wrote 

When  the  hounds  of  Spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil  and  all  the  pain — 

308 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

The  difference  lies  in  the  choice  of  model : 
in  the  selection  of  the  Shakespearean  method 
and  manner  instead  of  the  Sophoclean 
method  and  manner.  With  the  one  the 
poet  had  a  freer  play  for  his  unequalled 
metrical  invention  :  with  the  other  a  more 
intimate  and  familiar  method  of  develop- 
ment of  his  dramatic  conception. 

There  is  no  modern  dramatic  trilogy  that 
in  length,  sustained  power,  and  continuity 
of  beauty  can  be  compared  with  the  trilogy 
of  Mary  of  Scotland — Chastelard,  Bothwell, 
and  Mary  Stuart.  Of  these,  the  most 
difficult  achievement  is  the  third  :  the  most 
sustained  and  powerful  the  second :  the 
most  beautiful,  the  first.  Even  if  Swinburne 
had  never  written  another  line  on  the 
subject  of  Mary  Stuart,  Chastelard  would 
retain  its  place  as  one  of  the  finest  of  modern 
poetic  plays.  Certainly  it  is  not  a  master- 
piece of  the  front  rank  like  Atalanta,  but 
it  is  none  the  less  a  masterly  achievement 
with  a  beauty  beyond  that  of  any  dramatic 
poem  by  any  of  Swinburne's  contem- 
poraries. This  tragedy  of  the  love  of  the 
poet  Chastelard  for  a  woman  who  could 
not  possibly  be  true  to  one  man,  or  true 
even  to  love,  has  an  eternal  significance. 
Chastelard  wins  us  by  his  dauntless  passion 

309 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

for  the  beautiful  Queen  o'  Scots,  his  defiance 
of  death  and  contempt  for  all  else  that 
life  can  offer  if  it  does  not  offer  the  supreme 
passion,  and  by  his  heroism  of  lealty  to  a 
false  love  :  Mary  commands  our  reluctant 
allegiance  by  her  exquisite  womanhood, 
her  beauty,  her  youth,  her  high  destiny  and 
our  knowledge  of  her  tragic  fate :  and 
that  other  impressive  "  secondary  person- 
age," Mary  Beaton,  compels  our  sorrowful 
and  pitying  love.  Everything  turns  upon 
the  truth  and  loyalty  of  one  woman.  But 
Chastelard  is  a  poet,  and  reckless  of  life 
and  all  save  love,  and  Mary  is  one  of  those 
women  who  lie  by  instinct  and  of  necessity — 

/  know  hey  ways  of  loving,  all  of  them  : 
A  sweet  soft  way  the  first  is  ;  afterward 
It  hums  and  bites  like  fire  ;  the  end  of  that. 
Charred    dust    and    eyelids    bitten    through    with 
smoke. 

So  Chastelard  is  heroically  true  to  love  and 
to  his  lover,  and  Mary  for  all  her  talk  of 
truth  and  honour  shows  herself  in  her 
attitude  towards  the  man  to  whom  she  has 
given  her  love  both  a  coward  and  traitor. 
So  intense  is  her  self-sophistication  that 
she  remains  unable  to  realise  her  perfidy, 
and   thus   the  last   irony   is   added   to   the 

310 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

bitter  tragi-comedy  of  her  love-story.  Even 
when,  smitten  by  an  unusual  remorse,  she 
obtains  a  reprieve  to  save  the  life  of  her 
lover,  she  remembers  that  her  "  fair  name  " 
might  be  further  hurt  if  he  should  live, 
and  so  she  comes  ignobly  to  his  cell  to  re- 
claim the  reprieve,  trusting  to  his  loyalty 
of  love  even  when  he  knows  the  full  measure 
of  her  cowardice  and  falsehood.  But  Chaste- 
lard  has  known  her  far  better  than  she  could 
ever  know  him,  and  has  already  destroyed 
the  document  that  was  to  give  him  freedom 
and  life.  With  one  lover's  kisses  on  her 
lips  she  turns  to  another,  and  then,  and 
later  when  "  true  love "  ended  on  the 
scaffold,  and  the  usher  cried  "make  way 
for  my  lord  of  Bothwell  next  the  queen," 
"laughed  graciously."  It  is  the  eternal 
comedy  of  the  poet  and  his  mistress. 

Bothwell  is  the  longest  play  in  the  language. 
It  is  impossible  for  the  stage,  and  is  inevitably 
wearisome  at  times  even  as  a  drama  for 
the  mind.  But  it  is  wearisome  only  as  life 
is  wearisome,  and  has  the  same  rhythmic 
swaying  between  the  low  levels  and  the 
high,  the  like  monotonies  and  surprises, 
the  like  littlenesses  and  tragical  miscarriages. 
Only,  it  differs  in  this,  that  it  is  without 
either  the  broad  humour  whose  exaggeration 

311 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

is  farce,  or  the  refined  humour  whose  smile  is 
comedy.  It  is  a  masterpiece  on  a  colossal 
scale,  but  has  to  share  the  fate  of  colossal 
masterpieces,  and  be  read  only  by  students 
and  enthusiasts.  In  parts  it  contains  some 
of  Swinburne's  finest  dramatic  writing. 
The  trilogy  covers,  in  its  period  of  com- 
position, nearly  twenty  years,  for  though 
Chastelard  was  not  published  till  1865,  it 
was  a  text  revised  from  an  earlier  version, 
written  before  Atalanta  in  Calydon.  Bothwell 
appeared  in  1874,  and  Mary  Stuart  in  1881. 
Apart  from  the  infinite  beauty  and  charm 
of  these  plays  considered  as  poetry,  they 
have  a  deep  interest  as  an  historical  inter- 
pretation, by  a  student  profoundly  versed 
in  the  complicated  chronicles  which  deal 
with  the  problems  of  Scottish  and  English 
history  at  the  period  in  question  :  and  a 
perhaps  deeper  and  more  abiding  interest 
for  the  psychologist,  in  the  evolution  of 
Mary's  character,  of  her  inward  and  outer 
life. 

The  year  after  the  publication  of  Chaste- 
lard saw  the  issue  of  Poems  and  Ballads. 
Many  of  the  poems  had  been  written  some 
years  earlier  (Faustine,  for  example,  was 
printed  in  the  Spectator  in  1862,  and,  as  we 
have   already   seen,   Laus    Veneris  and   the 

312 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Hymn  to  Proserpine  were  in  that  year 
recited  to  a  friend)  :  perhaps  nearly  all  had 
been  written  when  Atalanta  appeared  in 
1865.  In  that  year,  the  small  literary 
public  which  "read"  hailed  Swinburne  as 
a  young  poet  of  extraordinary  promise  and 
achievement  :  in  1866  the  same  public, 
or  the  major  part,  and  the  vast  public 
beyond  which  followed  as  it  ever  follows 
any  lead  skilfully  given  to  it,  heaped  anger 
and  abuse  upon  the  head  of  the  brilliant 
offender  against  the  conventionalities  so 
dearly  treasured.  Where  Swinburne  had 
been  welcomed  he  was  now  solemnly  banned, 
when  not  metaphorically  threatened  with 
the  doom  of  St.  Stephen.  No  defence 
that  has  appeared  has  the  convincing  force 
of  Swinburne's  own  famous  defence.  At 
this  date,  it  seems  enough  to  say  that 
while  the  outcry  was  largely  foolish  where 
not  hypocritical,  and  sometimes  malicious 
where  not  foolish,  there  was  enough  basis 
to  give  hostility  a  definite  ground  to  take  up 
whence  to  proclaim  anathema  :  and  to  add 
that  for  some  pages,  for  some  poems  or 
parts  of  poems,  the  best  thing  would  have 
been  a  remorseless  blue  pencil.  But  it  is 
commonly  overlooked  that  the  defects 
calling  for  the  blue  pencil  were  defects  of 

313 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

immature  judgment  in  art,  not  of  "  public 
morality." 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  for  the 
reopening  of  a  controversy  unlikely  to  afford 
persuasion  to  the  public  of  any  time  or 
conviction  to  the  artist  of  any  period.  A 
gulf  separates  the  mental  world  wherein 
a  few  minds  think  and  act,  and  the  mental 
world  wherein  the  many  alternate  between 
stagnation  and  a  blind  following.  No  con- 
troversies, no  arguments,  no  persuasions, 
can  ever  be  but  temporary  bridges  which 
the  next  generation  will  overflood  and 
bear  away. 

Nor  can  I  enter  here  on  a  critical  estimate 
of  the  Poems  and  Ballads  and  the  Songs  Before 
Sunrise.  So  for  the  present  it  must  suffice 
to  say  that  by  common  consent  no  volume 
of  lyrical  poetry  such  as  Poems  and  Ballads 
has  appeared  in  English,  nor  is  like  to 
appear  again  :  that  it  has  a  music  of  its 
own  absolutely  unequalled  and  unap- 
proached :  and  that  among  much  of  a 
loveliness,  novelty,  and  charm  beyond  belief 
for  those  who  do  not  know  the  book,  there 
are  poems  which  only  a  proudly  reckless 
youth  would  write  and  only  a  youthful 
judgment  include. 

With  the  Poems  and  Ballads  in  1866,  and 

314 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

the  Songs  Before  Sunrise  five  years  later, 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  took  the  place 
that  no  other  poet  had  been  worthy  to 
occupy  since  Shelley's  death. 

If  one  were  to  divide  Swinburne's 
poetical  career  into  two  main  periods,  the 
first  would  end  in  1881,  with  the  publica- 
tion of  Mary  Stuart.  This  period  would 
comprise  (after  the  "  prelude "  of  the 
two  early  and  immature  plays)  Atalanta 
in  Calydon  and  Erechtheus,  Poems  and 
Ballads,  the  second  series  of  Poems  and 
Ballads  (1878),  Songs  Before  Sunrise,  Songs 
of  Two  Nations,  Songs  of  the  Springtides, 
Studies  in  Song,  and  the  great  trilogy 
(1866-1881)  of  Chastelard,  Bothwell,  and 
Mary  Stuart. 

The  second  period  would  comprise  the 
part  dramatic,  part  narrative,  wholly  lyrical 
Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  one  of  the  great 
works  of  the  poet ;  the  powerful  drama 
of  Marino  Faliero  ;  Locrine,  so  dramatic 
and  moving  ;  the  modern  but  surely  far 
from  convincing  play  The  Sisters;  the 
picturesque  versified  Arthurian  narrative. 
The  Tale  of  Balen  ;  and  the  recent  Rosamund, 
Queen  of  the  Lombards  ;  with,  for  lyrical 
collections,  the  Century  of  Roundels,  A 
Midsummer    Holiday,    the    third    series    of 

315 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

Poems   and   Ballads,   and   Astrophel,   one  of 
Mr.  Swinburne's  finest  books. 

The  period,  however,  which  ends  with 
the  close  of  the  trilogy  of  Mary  Stuart  and 
with  the  most  noble  elegiac  poem  written 
since  Adonais,  will  to  many  seem  the  great 
period.  This  much  may  certainly  be 
granted,  that  if  Mr.  Swinburne  had  written 
no  dramatic  verse  after  the  conclusion  of 
the  Mary  trilogy  and  no  lyrical  verse  after 
the  Ave  atqtie  vale,  which  throws  so 
splendid  a  glow  over  the  second  series  of 
Poems  and  Ballads,  his  fame  and  place 
would  be  no  less  and  no  lower  than  they  are 
to-day,  and  would,  so  far  as  contemporary 
judgment  can  foretell,  stand  assured 
against  any  change  or  chance  of  the  literary 
fates. 

But  it  is  still  the  indiscriminating  vogue 
with  the  generality  of  reviewers  to  aver 
that  there  is  nothing  of  the  old  magic  in 
Swinburne's  later  poetry.  I  think  it  would 
be  difficult  to  name  any  living  poet  whose 
work  reveals  more  of  essential  poetry  than 
is  to  be  found  in  these  later  writings.  This 
is  not  to  compare  one  period  with  another, 
or  one  masterpiece  and  one  gathering  of 
song  with  another  masterpiece  and  another 
gathering  of  song.     If  there  are  some  who 

316 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

would  say  "  we  have  '  the  real  Swinburne  ' 
in  Atalanta  and  Poems  and  Ballads,''^  there 
are  others  who  would  make  the  same 
affirmation  of  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and 
Astrophel  or  Studies  in  Song.  Recently  I 
saw  it  stated  that  we  might  look  in  vain 
for  any  later  verse  by  this  poet  which  had 
any  thought  behind  it  or  had  anything  of 
the  old  "  pantheistic  fervour  and  spiritual 
absorption  of  Hertha."  The  statement  was 
not,  and  is  not,  worth  refutation,  but  one 
would  like  to  know  if  the  writer  had  read 
The  Nympholept,  that  splendid  and  strangely 
ignored  nature -poem  which  once  and  for  all 
should  do  away  with  the  like  foolish  mis- 
statements. 

Apart  from  the  nobly  ordered  verse  of 
A  Nympholept,  what  charm  of  music,  simple 
and  sweet,  in  The  Mill-Garden  and  A 
Haven,  in  Heartsease  Country  and  An  Old 
Saying ;  *  poems  which  should,  I  think, 
sufficiently  meet  the  assertions  of  those 
readers  and  critics  who  aver  that  in 
his  later  period  Swinburne  has  lost  his 
old  secret  and  can  interest  still  but  no 
longer  charm, 

*  The  beautiful  little  song  Love  laid  his  sleepless 
head,  though  interpolated  in  this  section,  belongs 
to  the  earlier  period. 

317 


Alaernon  Charles  Swinburne 


"6 


Swinburne's  lifelong  passion  for  the  sea,  a 
passion  that  might  well  be  called  adoration, 
has  permeated  his  poetry  so  widely  and 
deeply  that  on  almost  every  page  of  lyrical 
writing  we  smell  the  salt  savour  or  hear 
the  surge  of  the  wave  or  the  long  sigh  of 
many  waters.  Swinburne  is  the  one  poet 
of  the  sea  :  the  one  poet  to  whom  through- 
out his  life  the  sea  has  been  a  passion  and  a 
dream,  a  bride  and  a  comrade,  the  "  wild 
brother  "  of  humanity  and  the  mirror  of 
Fate,  the  beginning  and  the  end,  the  image 
of  life  and  the  countenance  of  death.  We 
feel  to  be  wholly  true  of  him  that  intense 
obsession,  that  pantheistic  ecstasy,  which 
lives  in  lines  such  as 

/  shall  sleep,  and  move  with  the  moving  ships. 
Change  as  the  winds  change,  veer  in  the  tide  ; 

My  lips  ivill  feast  on  the  foam  of  thy  lips, 
I  shall  rise  with  thy  rising,  with  thee  subside. 

1  understand  that  Songs  of  the  Springtides 
is  one  of  the  least  known  of  Swinburne's 
writings.  It  ought  to  be  known  intimately 
to  every  lover  of  his  poetry.  Possibly 
more  than  any  other  of  his  books  it  affords; 
in  glimpses,  that  direct  autobiographical 
revelation  which  is  rare  in  this  poet's  work. 
The  three  long  lyrical  compositions  of  which 

318 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

the  volume  consists  are  Thalassius,  On  the 
Cliffs,  and  The  Garden  of  Cymodoce.  They 
contain  some  of  Swinburne's  loveliest 
lines.  Than  the  first  there  is  no  single 
poem  more  characteristic  of  the  author, 
and  for  this  and  its  autobiographical  sig- 
nificance, it  would  but  for  its  length  have 
been  given  here.  Behind  the  veil  of 
Thalassius  is  the  poetic  self  of  the  poet, 
as  behind  the  veil  of  Alastor  is  the  poetic 
self  of  Shelley.  All  the  lines  from  "  High 
things  the  high  song  taught  him  "  are  a 
true  revelation  of  the  author  of  Soitgs  Be/ore 
Sunrise  and  of  much  else  that  falls  into  line 
with  that  famous  echoing  the  voice  of 
freedom,  the  cry  of  revolution. 

For  sheer  genius  in  the  wedding  of 
"  sound  and  sense  "  what  contemporary 
poet  could  have  written  the  superb  Bac- 
chanalian passage,  or  that  other  of  tempest  : 
or  who  else  could  have  written  the  lovely 
episode  where  the  young  Thalassius  goes 
seaward,  to  the 

Dense  water-walls  and  clear  dusk  waterways  ,  i  i 
The  deep  divine  dark  dayshine  of  the  sea — 

In  the  beautiful  poem  On  the  Cliffs 
the  author  discloses,  what  every  intimate 
reader  of  his  work  must  have  discerned,  his 

319 


Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

passionate  sympathy  with  Sappho.  In  Ave 
atque  Vale,  and  in  the  Latin  and  English 
poems  to  Catullus,  and  in  On  the  Cli^s 
he  has  himself  revealed  what  lovers  of  his 
strange  muse  knew,  that  his  poetic  kindred 
are  Sappho,  Catullus,  and  Baudelaire — as 
again  (in  the  frank  and  memorable  twenty- 
sixth  stanza  of  In  the  Bay)  with  Marlowe 
and  Shelley  :  that  though  so  different 
from  each  in  achievement,  whether  known 
fragmentarily  or  fully,  he  is  allied  in  spirit 
and  genius  to  these  masters  of  beauty. 
Much  of  the  poem  is  bathed  in  a  lovely 
light  of  "  pale  pure  colour  " 

Too  dim  for  green  and  luminovis  for  grey, 

and  it  reads  as  though  dreamed  and  wi-itten 
when 

Between  the  moondawn  and  the  sundown  here 
The  twilight  hangs  half  starless.   .  .  . 

The  Garden  of  Cymodoce  is  more  obscure 
on  first  perusal.  Through  it  moves  an  air 
of  that  ancient  incommunicable  sorrow 
which  finds  an  echo  in  one  of  its  lines, 

The  wail  over  the  world  of  all  that  weep. 


320 


EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON 

(1903) 

Some  eight  years  ago  a  little  book  appeared 
entitled  Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours.  This 
book  was  received  not  only  with  the  respect 
due  to  a  poet  whose  earlier  writings  had  won 
him  a  distinguished  minor  place,  but  with  a 
cordial  recognition  that  by  it  English  poetry 
had  been  enriched.  Here,  it  was  realised, 
was  a  man  who  had  something  to  say  that 
was  worth  saying  and  was  said  in  a  new 
way.  True,  some  of  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton's 
critics  had  recognised  this  from  the  first, 
since  the  publication  of  Gods,  Saints,  and 
Men,  in  1880  ;  and  others  had  come  to  see 
in  succeeding  volumes  the  justification  of 
the  praise  and  confidence  of  the  few  who 
had  welcomed  a  new  writer  of  distinction. 
It  was  not,  however,  till  the  appearance  of 
Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours  that  anything 
like  justice  was  done  to  the  rare  merits  of 
the  author.  Perhaps  in  some  degree  this 
was  due  to  aroused  sympathy  :  sympathy 
in  321  X 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

with  what  rumour  hinted  of  a  life  of  tragical 
suffering  bravely  borne,    enhanced  by  the 
corroborative  evidence  of  the  writings  them- 
selves.  Casual  critics  had  complained  of  the 
emphasised  note  of  personal  loss,  personal 
despair,  without  recognising  that  the  author 
was  not  adopting  a  pose,  but  was  sincerely 
giving  expression  to  a  bitter  truth.     Nor, 
again,  had  these  commentators  known  the 
work  in  its  proper  proportions  :    they  had 
seen  certain  features  in  exaggerated  relief, 
they     discerned    nothing     of    the    artistic 
equipoise  which  rendered  the  poet's  verse 
variegated  in  charm  as  well  as  in  sombre 
power,  in  delicate  beauty  as  well  as  in  the 
weird  and  fantastic,  the  despairing  and  the 
tragical.     A  critic  complained  once,  in  an 
essay  on  pessimism  in  modern  poetry,  that 
all  the  writers  of    Lee-Hamilton's  way  of 
thought  were  hopeless  pessimists,  in  part  at 
least,  because  they  could  never  see  life  in 
its  happy  minor  moods,  or  recognise  that 
delicacy  of  thought  and  lightness  of  touch 
could,  in  art,  go  as  far,  or  further,  than  "  a 
sad  strenuousness."     The  proposition  thus 
put  is  not  true  or  relevant,  but  merely  vague 
and  inconsequently  assertive.     To  see  life 
in  its   happy  minor   moods   is   a  spiritual 
faculty  that  may  quite  well  co-exist  with  an 

322 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

intellectual  inability  to  accept  every  vicissi- 
tude  of    human  destiny  as  plain  evidence 
of  divine  care  and  love  :    and  a  poet  can 
blithely  rejoice  in  the  sweet  natural  world, 
or  happily  live  and  move  in  the  world  of  the 
imagination,  even  if  the  primary  dogmas  of 
the  Church  are  a  dead  letter  to  him.     As  to 
any  inevitable  quality  in  intellectual  pessi- 
mism tending  to  dissociation  from  delicacy 
of  thought  and  lightness  of  touch,  there  is 
certainly  no  more  than  the  like  inevitable 
quality  in  optimism  tending  to  association 
with  the  terrible  and  painful  :    these  direc- 
tions are   matters  of  temperament,   of  in- 
dividual outlook,  not  of  theory  as  to  life's 
limitations    and    destinies.     Darley    was    a 
pessimist  and  unhappy  in  his  life  and  cir- 
cumstances, but  no  English  poet  has  sur- 
passed him  in  the  delicacy  of  his  vision  of 
the  imaginative  world  of  fairyland  and  the 
greenwood  life,  or  equalled  him  in  lightness 
of  touch.     Thomas   Hardy   is   a   pessimist, 
in  the  current  use  of  the  word  at  least  ; 
but  no  contemporary  has  given  us  a  more 
charming  and  humorous  and  convincingly 
vivid    portrayal    of    human    life    than    the 
author  of  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.     And,  it 
might  well  be  asked,  who  among  living  poets 
has    given    us  so  delightful  and   delicately 

323 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

sure  a  revelation  of  the  "fairy"  world, 
from  the  characteristic  English  standpoint 
at  any  rate,  as  Lee-Hamilton  has  done  in 
poems  such  as,  for  example,  the  two  sonnets 
of  The  Death  of  Puck  in  Sonnets  of  the  Wiitg- 
less  Hours? 


I  fear  that  Puck  is  dead — t't  is  so  long 

Since  men  last  saw  him — dead  with  all  the  rest 
Of  that  sweet  elfin  crew  that  made  their  nest 

In  hollow  nuts,  where  hazels  sing  their  song  ; 

Dead  and  for  ever,  like  the  antique  throng 

The  elves  replaced  ;  the  Dryad  that  you  guessed 
Behind  the  leaves  ;  the  Naiad  weed-bedressed  ; 

The  leaf-eared  Faun  that  loved  to  lead  you  wrong. 

Tell  me,  thou  hopping  Robin,  hast  thou  met 

A  little  man,  no  bigger  than  thyself, 
Whom  they  call  Puck,  where  woodland  bells  are  wet  ? 

Tell  tne,  thou  Wood-Mouse,  hast  thou  seen  an  elf 

Whom  they  call  Puck,  and  is  he  seated  yet, 
Capped  with  a  snail-shell,  on  his  mushroom  shelf  ? 

II 

The  Robin  gave  three  hops,  and  chirped,  attd  said  : 
•*  Yes,  I  knew  Puck,  and  loved  him  ;  though  I  trow 
He  mimicked  oft  my  whistle  chuckling  low  ; 

Yes,  I  knew  cousin  Puck,  but  he  is  dead. 

We  found  him  lying  on  his  mushroom  bed — 
The  wren  and  I — half  covered  up  with  snow, 
As  we  were  hopping  where  the  berries  grow. 

We  think  he  died  of  cold.     Aye,  Puck  is  fed." 

324 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

And  then  the  Wood-Mouse  said  :  "  We  made  the 
Mole 
Dig  him  a  little  grave  beneath  the  moss, 
A  nd  Jour  big  Dormice  placed  him  in  a  hole  ; 

The  Squirrel  made  with  sticks  a  little  cross  ; 
Puck  was  a  Christian  elf,  and  had  a  soul  ; 
And  all  we  velvet-jackets  mourn  his  loss." 

This  is  the  same  poet  who  elsewhere  (in 
The  New  Medusa)  reveals  his  personal 
tragedy  in  lines  such  as : 

What  work  I  do,  I  do  with  numbed,  chained  hand, 
With  scanty  light,  and  seeing  ill  the  whole, 
And  each  small  part,  once  traced,  must  changeless 
stand 

Beyond  control — 

or  newly  conveys  the  more  impersonal 
world-sorrow  at  the  loss  of  ancient  faith,  as 
in  the  fine  sonnet  Idle  Charon  which  opens 
the  volume  entitled  Apollo  and  Marsyas  : 

The  shores  of  Styx  are  lone  for  evermore. 

And  not  one  shadoivy  form  upon  the  sleep 

Looms  through  the  dust,  far  as  the  eye  can  sweep, 

To  call  the  ferry  over  as  of  yore  ; 

But  tintless  rushes  all  about  the  shore 

Have  hemmed  the  old  boat  in,  where,  locked  in 

sleep, 
Hoar-bearded  Charon  lies  ;  while  pale  weeds  creep 
With  tightening  grasp  all  round  the  unused  oar. 
For  in  the  world  of  life  strange  rumours  run 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

That  now  the  Soul  departs  not  with  the  breath, 
But  that  the  Body  and  the  Soul  are  one  ; 
And  in  the  loved  one's  mouth  now,  after  death. 
The  widow  puts  no  obol,  nor  the  son. 
To  pay  the  Jerry  in  the  world  beneath. 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  was  born  in  London, 
in  January  1845,  and  was  still  in  infancy 
when  his  father  died.  His  mother  was  a 
woman  of  marked  individuality  and  of 
exceptional  mental  powers,  so  that  it  was 
natural  that  she  should  prefer  to  educate 
her  child  herself.  This  was  the  more 
fortunate  for  her  son  in  so  far  that  he  was 
not  tied  down  to  the  routine  of  schoohng  in 
one  place,  because  Mrs.  Lee-Hamilton  en- 
joyed and  believed  in  the  value  of  varied 
experience  of  "  places,  men,  and  things  " 
abroad.  Thus  the  early  years  of  Eugene 
Lee-Hamilton  were  mainly  spent  in  France 
and  Germany.  When  nineteen  he  went  to 
Oriel  College,  Oxford,  and  in  the  same  year 
(1864)  took  the  Taylorian  Scholarship  in 
Modern  Languages  and  Literature  :  an 
excellent  proof  that  he  had  not  suffered  by 
maternal  education  in  lieu  of  the  usual 
school  routine.  By  many  passages  and 
allusions  in  the  poet's  early  Poems  and 
Transcripts  and  other  volumes,  it  is  clear 
that  this  Oxford  period  was  the  happiest 

326 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

in    his    life.     In    addition    to    exceptional 
mental   powers,   he   had   good   health   and 
enjoyed  all  out-door  life,  and  the  ambition 
to  excel  was  the  salt  to  the  pleasant  savour 
of  youth.     When  he  left  Oxford,  it  was  to 
enter    (in    1869)    the    Diplomatic    Service. 
Eugene  began  mature  life  along  two  lines 
of  development  :  the  line  of  diplomacy,  and 
the  line  of  study   and  a  severe  intellectual 
training.     Perhaps  it  was  during  the  early 
period   of   this   dual   strain   that   the   first 
symptoms  of  nature's  warning  that  he  was 
incurring  an  excess  of  nervous  expenditure 
revealed  themselves  :    if  so,  they  were  too 
slight    to    attract    any    particular    notice. 
After  six  months'  hard  work  at  the  Foreign 
Office,  he  was  attached  to  the  British  Em- 
bassy at  Paris,  one  of  the  primary  reasons 
for  his  appointment  being    his    proficiency 
as  a  French  linguist,  and  his  interest  in  and 
considerable  knowledge  of  French  life.     Life 
at  the  Embassy,  always  interesting,  became 
an    exciting    experience    at    the    outbreak 
of    the    Franco-German    War.     The    work, 
however,  now  involved  a  greatly  enhanced 
strain,  and  as  the  young  student -diplomatist 
was  not  so  strong  as  he  looked,  he  began 
slowly   to   suffer    in   minor    but    harassing 
ways.     In  all,  he  served  three  years  under 

327 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

our  Ambassador,  Lord  Lyons,  and  accom- 
panied the  Embassy  to  Tours,  Bordeaux, 
and  Versailles  in  its  respective  domiciliary 
changes  during  the  war.  Possibly,  if  the 
young  diplomatist  could  have  had  a  long 
rest  after  his  arduous  labours  during  the 
Franco-German  War,  he  might  have  avoided 
a  break-down  which  was  becoming  almost 
inevitable,  though  its  imminence  or  serious- 
ness was  unrecognised  by  himself  or  others. 
It  was  with  relief,  however,  that  in  1873  he 
found  himself  appointed  to  our  Legation 
at  Lisbon,  under  Sir  Charles  Murray. 

At  first  the  change  to  a  warmer  climate, 
and  to  a  new  and  picturesque  environment, 
effected  some  good  to  failing  health.  Then, 
rapidly,  the  first  dread  symptoms  of  a 
cerebro-spinal  disease  revealed  themselves. 
The  young  diplomatist's  career  was  at  an 
end.  Not  long  after  his  resignation  and 
departure  from  Lisbon,  he  himself  realised 
that  all  his  hopes  and  ambitions  were 
doomed  to  frustration.  By  this  time,  in  a 
serai -paralysed  condition,  he  was  now  an 
acknowledged  sufferer  from  the  same  dread 
and  agonising  disease  which  had  kept  Heine 
on  his  mattress -grave  for  so  many  weary 
years  till  death  released  the  poet  from  his 
martyrdom.     In  a  brief  while  from  the  first 

328 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

definite  collapse  (in  1874),  all  hope  was 
practically  abandoned.  It  seemed  but  a 
question  of  time,  of  physical  endurance,  and 
moral  courage. 

All  the  published  poetic  work  of  Eugene 
Lee-Hamilton  (with  the  slight  exception  of 
his  share  in  Forest  Notes)  was  accomplished 
within  the  twenty  years,  from  1874  to  1894, 
when,  practically  paralysed,  always  in  pain, 
and  for  years  in  a  continuous  martyr- 
dom of  acute  suffering  and  nervous  agony, 
he  endured  with  a  latent  vitality  and  an 
undaunted  courage  what  almost  seemed 
beyond  human  courage  or  vitality  to  meet. 

It  is  the  knowledge  of  this  dreadful 
suffering  and  all  of  bitter  regret,  disillusion, 
and  relinquishment  involved,  which  gives 
his  poetry  in  general,  and  the  Sonnets  of  the 
Wingless  Hours  in  particular,  so  poignant 
an  accent.  How,  in  the  circumstances,  so 
much  fine  work  was  achieved  may  well 
astonish  us  :  the  accomplishment  of  the 
finer  portion  might  seem  incredible  if  the 
method  and  manner  of  composition  were 
fully  realised.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  for 
a  long  period  Lee-Hamilton's  suffering  was 
too  acute  to  enable  him  to  be  read  to  ; 
conversations,  messages,  letters,  had  to  be 
condensed  into  a  few  essential  words  ;   even 

329 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

the  poetry  he  so  loved  had  to  be  read  to  him 
at  long  intervals,  and  often  had  to  be  limited 
to  a  couple  of  lines  at  a  time.     In  dictation 
of  his   own   poetry   he   was   almost   as  re- 
stricted.    At  one  time  he  could  not  have 
dictated  the  whole  of  a  sonnet  straightway  ; 
for  a  considerable  period  a  line  or  two  at  a 
time  had  to  suffice.     Twenty  years  of  the 
maturity   of   a   man's  life,   from   thirty   to 
fifty  ;    think  of  it  !  .  .  .  of  all  that  is  in- 
volved,   of    all    that    it    means  !  .  .  .  and 
this,  too,  without  hope  of  recovery,  and  with 
likelihood   of   enhanced   suffering.     Yet   in 
these  twenty  years  the  poet  never  despaired 
in  the  sense  of  turning  his  face  to  the  wall 
and  refusing  further  terms  with  life .     Volume 
after  volume  came  from  him,  and  not  only 
original  verse,  but  a  careful  and  scholarly 
metrical   translation   of   Dante,   in   itself  a 
heavy  labour  even  for  the  time  and  energy 
of   an  enthusiast   unencumbered   in  health 
and  circumstance.     Truly,  Heine's  brother 
of   the   m.at tress -grave   endured   and   lived 
by  poetry  alone.     It  was  this  inward  life, 
this  indweUing  spirit,  this  star  in  the  mind 
which    kept    despair    at    bay,    and     gave 
a  few  rare  moments  of  solace   and   beauty 
to    the    weary    round     of     the     wingless 
hours.     He   has   himself   said  better    than 

330 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

any  other   can    say  what  Poetry  meant  to 
him  : 

/  think  the  Fairies  to  my  christening  came  ; 

But  they  were  wicked  sprites  and  envious  elves  ; 

Who  brought  me  gall,  as  bitter  as  themselves, 
In  tiny  tankards  wrought  with  fairy  flame. 
They  wished  me  love  of  books — each  little  dame — 

With  power  to  read  no  book  upon  my  shelves  ; 

Fair   limbs — for    palsy  ;    Dead-Sea  fruits    by 
twelves  ; 
And  every  bitter  blessing  you  can  name. 

But  one  good  Elf  there  was  ;  and  she  let  fall 

A  single  drop  of  Poesy's  wine  of  gold 
In  every  little  tankard  full  of  gall. 

So  year  by  year,  as  woes  and  pains  grow  old, 

The  little  golden  drop  is  in  them  all  ; 
But  bitterer  is  the  cup  than  can  be  told. 

We  may  fairly  contrast  this  poetry,  this 
attitude,  with  that  of  other  poets  of  "  gloom 
and  sorrow  and  sadness,"  with  whom 
Eugene  Lee -Hamilton  has  with  only  partial 
justice  been  classed.  One  of  the  greatest 
poets  of  Italy  won  the  sympathy  of  the 
reading  world  by  the  sincerity  and  uni- 
formity of  his  lamentations  upon  the  evil 
of  life  :  and  though  not  even  the  lyrical 
genius  and  powerful  intellect  of  Leopardi 
can  now  recall  his  retreated  fame  across 
the  borders  of  youth  and  hope,  there  was  a 

331 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

time  when  his  poetry  of  lamentation  was 
held  to  be  justified  by  the  weariness,  ill- 
health,  and  shattered  energies  which  from 
early  manhood  accompanied  his  disappointed 
and  brief  life.  But  none,  surely,  could  say 
that  the  English  poet  had  not  endured  a 
bitterer  destiny,  yet  with  a  far  greater 
dignity  in  reticence  of  personal  lament. 
No  contemporary  writer  has  suffered  more ; 
but  where  do  we  find  the  embittered  hatred 
and  scorn  of  life  so  characteristic  of  many 
of  those  who  have  known  the  hard  way  ? 
He  bears  no  ill-will  to  those  of  happier 
fortunes  :  he  curses  no  gods  :  and  if  he  is 
sad  in  mind  and  sick  at  heart,  if  the  tragical 
and  poignant  and  pathetic  appeal  to  him  as 
themes  oftener  than  a  perfect  sanity  would 
adjudge  right,  that,  surely,  is  but  natural. 
In  the  Italy  where  he  has  spent  most  of  his 
life,  and  knows  so  well  despite  restricted 
opportunities,  there  are  poets  who  have 
outdone  the  prophets  in  anathema  and 
bewailing,  without  a  tenth  part  of  the 
justification  of  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton.  Read 
not  only  the  great  Carducci  in  his  sombre 
moments,  but  Mario  Rapisardi,  the  re- 
presentative poet  of  the  south  ;  or  Arturo 
Graf,  the  typical  pessimist  of  that  northern 
Italy   which   has   become   so   Germanised ; 

332 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

or  Ada  Negri,  the  author  of  Fatalita  and 
Tempeste,  books  which  have  had  a  wide 
sale  and  a  wider  and  deeper  influence,  and 
wherein  the  cry  of  revolt  and  the  snarl 
against  life  become  hysterical  through  sheer 
intensity.  Then  turn  to  even  so  sad  a 
book  as  Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours. 
What  serenity  in  suffering,  what  dignity  in 
pain,  what  control  over  bitterness !  How 
insincere  much  of  Baudelaire  appears  in  this 
contrast,  how  crude  the  savage  banalities 
of  Maldoror ;  how  rhetorical  even  the 
sombre  verse  of  the  author  of  The  City  of 
Dreadful  Night.  In  one  respect  at  least, 
Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  and  the  late  Philip 
Bourke  Marston  should  be  remembered 
together  :  for  these  two  poets  of  lifelong 
suffering  and  loss  have  ever,  to  use  an  old- 
fashioned  phrase,  been  gentlemen  in  their 
sorrow. 

To  return  to  the  poet's  career  subsequent 
to  his  collapse  after  his  retirement  from 
the  diplomatic  service.  From  Lisbon  he 
went  to  Florence,  to  the  home  of  his  mother, 
who  had  remarried  some  ten  years  after 
her  first  husband's  death.  Here,  with 
Mrs.  Paget,  as  she  now  was,  and  with  his 
half-sister  Violet  Paget,  later  to  become  so 
well  known  as  Vernon  Lee,  he  spent  the 

333 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

ensuing  twenty  years  in  the  circumstances 
indicated,  and  with  only  a  few  brief  summer 
changes  (then,  as  in  his  ordinary  "  airings  " 
in  Florence,  having  to  be  conveyed  on  a 
wheeled  bed)  to  Siena,  or  the  Bagni  di 
Lucca. 

During  the  first  three  years  of  his  painful 
and  disabling  malady,  Lee-Hamilton  revised 
some  of  his  youthful  productions  in  verse, 
and,  having  selected  and  amplified,  published 
his  first  volume,  Poems  and  Transcripts. 
This  was  in  1878,  and  from  that  date  the 
author  continuously  devoted  himself  to 
the  art  he  has  loved  and  so  well  served. 
His  early  book  is  interesting  as  a  prelude  : 
all  the  author's  qualities  are  foreshadowed, 
if  sometimes  dimly.  It  reveals  an  in- 
different accomplishment  in  technique,  but 
the  poet-touch  is  often  evident  and  con- 
vincing. Even  if  the  volume  had  not 
appeared  at  a  time  when  the  cult  of  deft 
metrical  artifice  was  absorbing  the  attention 
of  poets  and  critics,  it  is  certain  that  Poems 
and  Transcripts  could  have  had  no  great 
measure  of  success.  Yet  one  may  turn  to 
the  book  with  pleasure,  though  the  author 
has  travelled  a  long  way  in  the  twenty-five 
years  which  have  passed  since  its  publication. 

334 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

Two  years  later  (1880)  the  poet's  second 
volume  appeared.  Gods,  Saints,  and  Man 
showed  an  unmistakable  advance.  It  was 
evident  that  a  new  craftsman  in  dramatic 
verse,  in  the  dramatic  ballad  and  lyrical 
narrative,  had  entered  the  lists.  The  touch 
was  still  unequal,  the  art  often  interspaced 
with  disillusioning  phrase,  or  dragged  by 
the  prosaic  clay  of  the  overworn  or  colour- 
less word,  the  jejune  epithet.  But  it  was 
a  poet  and  not  merely  a  verse -writer  who 
challenged  criticism.  And  this,  in  itself  a 
distinction,  was  still  more  manifest  in  The 
New  Medusa  and  Apollo  and  Marsyas, 
published  respectively  in  1882  and  1884. 
If  in  the  later  of  these  two  volumes  is  no 
ballad  to  surpass  in  dramatic  intensity 
The  Raft  in  the  earlier,  the  narrative  and 
ballad  poems  show  a  more  scrupulous  art 
and  compelling  power.  Their  author  loves 
a  terrible  subject  as  a  gourmet  loves  a 
delicacy  :  it  is  the  rich  food  and  strong 
wine  most  beloved  of  his  imagination. 
In  Sister  Mary  of  the  Plague,  in  this  1884 
volume,  he  has  a  theme  which  has  the 
demerit  of  fundamental  unreality,  but  the 
merit  of  intensely  dramatic  possibility. 
This  theme  is  one  which  might  easily  be 

335 


Eugene  Lee- Hamilton 

treated  repulsively,  but  which  Lee-Hamilton 
has  rendered  in  beauty,  and  as  to  whose 
imaginative  reality  he  convinces  us.  But 
if  in  this  tale  of  a  vampire-woman  to  whom 
the  enormity  of  her  hidden  life  and  frightful 
destiny  are  accidentally  revealed,  a  re- 
velation met  not  only  with  despair  but  with 
spiritual  abhorrence,  the  poet  has  succeeded 
where  most  would  fail,  he  has  not  always 
the  like  good  fortune.  Personally  I  find 
the  flaws  in  workmanship  more  obvious  in 
these  dramatic  narratives  and  ballads  than 
in  his  sonnets,  where  the  discipline  of  the 
form  has  for  this  poet  ever  exercised 
a  salutary  influence.  Perhaps  his  finest 
achievement  in  this  kind  is  the  vivid  dramatic 
narrative,  Abraham  Carew,  a  Puritan  fanatic 
who  has  wilfully  murdered  his  only  and 
dearly  loved  daughter  under  the  terrible 
obsession  of  the  idea  that  the  sacrifice  is 
required  of  him  by  the  Almighty.  It  is 
refreshing  to  turn  from  sombre  and  tragical 
studies  such  as  Sister  Mary  of  the  Plague, 
Abraham  Carew,  The  Wonder  of  the  World, 
Ipsissimus,  and  others,  to  a  romantic  ballad 
so  strong  and  spirited  as  Hunting  the  King 
(based  on  the  historic  episode  of  Drouet's 
night-ride  to  Varennes).  Yet  even  in  the 
volume  containing  these  noteworthy  ballads 

336 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

and  dramatic  poems,  the  most  memorable 
part  is  not  that  which  comprises  tliem,  but 
that  where  a  score  of  sonnets  reveal  a  surer 
inspiration  and  a  finer  technique.  As  in 
The  New  Medusa  one  after  a  time  recalls 
only  vaguely  The  Raft  and  other  strenuous 
compositions,  one  remembers  sonnet  after 
sonnet.  One  of  these,  Sea-Shell  Murmurs, 
is  already  accepted  as  one  of  the  finest 
contemporary  achievements  in  its  kind — 
and  none  the  less  because  that  the  central 
image  is  familiar  :  the  more,  indeed,  from 
the  triumph  of  imparting  to  an  outworn 
poetic  symbol  a  new  life  and  a  new 
beauty. 

A  genuine  if  limited  success  came  to  Lee- 
Hamilton  with  the  publication  in  1888  of 
his  Imaginary  Sonnets,  despite  its  equivocal 
title.  Here,  in  truth,  it  was  realised,  was 
a  poet  who  had  won  the  right  to  be  con- 
sidered seriously.  On  the  other  hand,  his 
next  volume,  the  poetic  drama  called  The 
Fountain  0/  YoiUh,  though  containing  some 
of  the  poet's  finest  passages,  and  with 
the  advantage  of  one  of  those  deep- 
based  themes  which  ignite  the  imagination 
of  all  of  us,  was  almost  ignored  by  the 
reading  public.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand why  this  fine  book  failed  to  win  wider 

III  337  Y 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

appreciation  than  it  did.  The  fault  cannot  lie 
wholly  ^ith  the  might -be  readers,  or  with 
the  critics — several  of  whom  spoke  of  it 
highly.  Probably  the  reason  in  part  lies 
in  that  monotony  in  handling  which  charac- 
terises many  of  the  author's  narrative 
poems  ;  and  in  the  like  tendency  to  wed 
fine  and  commonplace  lines  and  passages 
in  an  incompatible  union.  Possibly  the 
real  reason  is  that  "  the  reader  "  does  not 
wish  to  be  led  to  any  Fountain  of  Youth, 
even  if  by  Ponce  da  Leon  himself  (the 
author's  "hero"),  unless  it  be  to  a 
revelation  of  hope.  The  fountains  of 
disillusion  are  dreaded  by  most  of  us. 

Three  years  later,  in  1894,  Eugene  Lee- 
Hamilton's  finest  book,  with  its  beautiful 
and  appropriate  title  Sonnets  of  the  Wing- 
less Hours,  convinced  even  those  who  had 
hitherto  shown  indifference,  that  here  was  a 
true  and  fine  poet  with  an  utterance  all 
his  own,  an  inspiration  that  none  could 
gainsay,  and  a  gift  of  beauty  worthy  in- 
deed of  welcome.  The  collection  was  not, 
it  is  true,  of  wholly  new  poetry  :  many 
of  the  sonnets  had  already  appeared  in 
earlier  volumes.  But  here,  it  was  realised, 
was  brought  together  the  most  unalloyed 
ore  that   the  poet  had  to  offer  :    old  and 

338 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

new,  the  collection  was  at  once  unique, 
beautiful,  and  convincing. 

From  1874  to  1894— in  these  twenty 
years  the  poet  had  never  stirred  from  his 
wheeled  bed.  In  these  twenty  years  he 
had  endured  suffering  so  continuous  and 
hopeless  as  to  be  all  but  unendurable — and 
in  pain  and  difficulty,  often  only  line  by 
line,  sometimes  literally  only  by  a  word  or 
two  at  a  time,  had  dictated  all  these  volumes. 
For  many  weeks  in  each  year,  at  one  time 
for  many  sequent  months,  he  could  see 
even  his  intimate  friends  only  at  rare  in- 
tervals and  for  the  briefest  periods.  It 
would  not  be  seemly  to  enlarge  upon  this 
long  martyrdom  :  it  is  enough  to  indicate 
out  of  what  steadfastness  of  will  and 
heroism  of  endurance  these  books  came  to 
be. 

Then  at  last  the  miraculous  happened. 
Early  in  the  twenty-first  year  of  this  pro- 
longed half -life,  when  he  had  almost  reached 
the  age  of  fifty,  the  sufferer  began  to  realise 
that  his  disease  was  on  the  wane.  At 
first  this  seemed  impossible  :  then  it  was 
feared  as  a  prelude  to  a  worse  collapse  : 
finally  hope  became  almost  a  certainty. 
Before  the  summer  had  passed  the  invalid 
arose,  restored  to  new  life.     True,  it  took 

339 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

him  months  to  learn  to  walk  again,  and 
even  when  he  could  dispense  with  an 
attendant  and  was  once  more  able  to  go  out 
into  the  light  of  day  and  rejoice  in  freedom 
of  movement  and  the  rapture  of  recovered 
energies,  many  more  months  elapsed  before 
he  could  trust  himself  to  the  normal  activities 
of  the  life  he  had  seen  pass  from  him  twenty 
years  back. 

Thereafter    recovery    to    health    became 
complete,    though    of    course    without    the 
elasticity    and    vigour    of    men    who    had 
reached   the    same    age   without    sufferings 
and    in    fortunate    circumstances.     Eugene 
Lee-Hamilton    travelled    much.     In    1897 
he  visited  America,  and  returned  "  a  new 
man."     In  Rome  (for  Italy  was  his  adopted 
country,  and  he  could  not  live  away  from 
it)  he  met  the  lady  whom  in  1898  he  married 
— the   Scottish   novelist,    Annie   E.    Holds- 
worth,  author  of  Joanna  Traill,  Spinster ; 
The  Years  that  the  Locust  hath  Eaten  ;  &c., 
&c.     In    1899    many    friends    of   both    de- 
lighted   in    a    charming    little    volume    of 
poetry,     entitled     Forest     Notes,     wherein 
husband  and  wife  had  collaborated,   each 
giving    of    their    best    and    freshest,    and 
content   to   merge   their   forest   notes    into 
one  woodland  song. 

340 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

No  more  of  biography  would  be  fitting 
here  than  to  add  that  two  years  ago  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Lee-Hamilton  settled  in  a  charming 
old  villa  at  San  Gervasio  outside  Florence, 
on  the  hill-road  to  Fiesole  :  and  that  with 
renewed  life  the  poet  has  again  given 
himself  to  the  Muse  he  served  so  well  in 
the  years  of  suffering  and  lethargy — the 
lethargy  that,  as  he  says  in  one  of  the 
lyrics  in  The  Fountain  of  Youth,  "  deadened 
unthinkable  pain." 

In  order  to  understand  Eugene  Lee- 
Hamilton's  work,  and  properly  to  estimate 
it,  one  must  know  the  conditions  which 
shaped  and  the  circumstances  which  coloured 
its  growth.  So  far  as  practicable  this  has 
been  indicated  in  the  present  note.  For 
a  fuller  understanding  of  the  mind  and  spirit 
of  the  poet  one  must  look  to  the  poems 
themselves,  and  particularly  to  the  sonnets, 
naturally  so  much  more  a  personal  ex- 
pression than  the  dramatic  ballads  and 
narrative  poems,  or  than  the  "  imaginary 
sonnets " — i.e.,  sonnets  imagined  to  be 
addressed  from  some  historic  individual  to 
another,  or  to  living  or  inanimate  objects, 
or  to  an  abstraction,  or  from  some  creation 
of  the  poetic  imagination  to  another,  as 
Carmagnola  to  the  Republic  of  Venice  and 

341 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

Chastelard  to  Mary  Stuart,  as  Cardinal 
Wolsey  to  his  Hound  and  Lady  Jane  Grey 
to  the  Flowers  and  Birds,  as  Michael  Angelo 
to  his  Statue  of  Day  and  Alexander  Selkirk 
to  his  Shadow,  as  Balboa  to  the  Pacific  and 
Henry  I.  to  the  Sea,  as  Venus  to  Tann- 
hauser  and  Faustus  to  Helen  of  Troy. 
Above  all,  the  reader  will  find  what  Maeter- 
linck calls  both  the  outward  fatality  and 
the  inward  destiny,  in  many  of  the  sonnets 
contained  in  The  Wingless  Hours.  So  simple 
and  vivid  is  this  poetic  autobiography  that 
few  readers  could  fail  to  grasp  the  essential 
features  of  the  author's  life,  and  of  the 
brave,  unselfish,  and  truly  poetic  spirit 
which  has  uplifted  it. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  point  that  has 
from  the  first  been  in  my  mind.  No  work 
of  art  can  in  the  long  run  be  estimated  in 
connection  with  the  maker's  circumstances 
or  suffering.  Work  in  any  of  the  arts  is 
excellent,  good,  mediocre,  poor,  or  bad : 
we  may  know  the  conditional  reasons  :  we 
may  be  biassed  in  sympathy  :  but  we  must 
judge  only  by  the  achievement.  There  can 
be  no  greater  literary  fallacy  than  to  believe 
that  Leopardi's  poetry  owes  what  is  enduring 
in  it  to  the  pathos  of  his  brief  and  sorrowful 
life  ;    that  Heine's  lyrics  are  unforgettable 

342 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

because  of  his  mattress-grave  ;  that  the 
odes  of  Keats  are  more  to  be  treasured  by 
us  because  he  died  young  and  was  derided 
by  an  influential  critic  ;  that  the  poems 
of  Shelley  are  sweeter  because  he  was  of 
the  stricken  hearts,  and  was  drowned  in 
early  manhood  ;  or  that  the  songs  of  Burns, 
or  the  lyrics  of  Poe,  are  supreme  in  kind 
because  of  the  tragical  circumstances  in 
the  lives  of  both  poets.  The  essential  part 
of  the  poetry  of  Leopardi,  Heine,  Keats, 
Shelley,  Burns,  Poe,  is  wholly  independent 
of  what  has  been  called  the  pathetic 
fallacy.  Each  of  these  great  artists  would 
inevitably  refuse  to  take  any  other  stand- 
point. Imagine  Keats  admiring  the  verse 
of  a  writer  because  he  was  blind  or  was  a 
victim  to  consumption,  or  Heine  enduring 
lyrics  on  the  ground  that  the  author  was 
paralysed  or  had  died  untimely  through  a 
broken  heart  ! 

It  is  not,  therefore,  on  account  of  what 
the  author  has  suffered  in  body  and  en- 
dured in  spirit  that  I  would  say,  "  Read  : 
for  here  is  verse  wonderful  as  having 
been  written  in  circumstances  of  almost 
intolerable  hardship  :  verse  moving  and 
beautiful  because  the  solace  of  a  fine  mind 
in    a    prolonged    martyrdom    of    pain    and 

343 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

hopelessness."    That  would   be   to    do    an 
injustice  to  the  author's  fine  achievement. 
I   would   say   first   and   foremost,    "  Read  : 
for  here  is  true  poetry."     The  rest  is  inci- 
dental.    It    is    right    that    we    should    be 
biassed  by  sympathy,  and  inevitable  that 
the  atmosphere  wherein  we  approach  should 
be    coloured    by    that    sympathy    and    an 
admiring  pity  ;    but  when  we  come  to  the 
consideration  of  any  work  of  the  imagination, 
we  have  to  judge  of  it  solely  by  its  con- 
formity   with    or    inability    to    fulfil    these 
laws.     Sorrow    and    suffering    have    given 
their    colour    to    these    "  little    children   of 
pain."     We  feel  their  pain  the  more  acutely 
because  we  know  they  are  neither  imagined 
through    dramatic    sympathy    nor    clad    in 
rhetoric.     Each    is    a    personal    utterance. 
But  each  is  more  than  a  statement,  however 
pathetic  in  fact  and  moving  in  sentiment  : 
each  is  a  poem,  by  virtue  of  that  life  which 
the  poet  can  give  only  when  his  emotion 
becomes    rhythmical,    and    when    his    art 
controls  that  rhythm  and  compels  it  to  an 
ordered  excellence.     Were  it  not  so,  these 
sonnets    would    merely    be    exclamatory. 
They  might  win  our  sympathy,  they  could 
not  win  our  minds  :    they  might  persuade 
us  to  pity,  they  could  not  charm  us  with 

344 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

beauty.  Look,  for  example,  at  the  first 
sonnet  one  may  perchance  see  :  Lost  Years. 
A  little  less  of  discipline,  and  the  octave 
would  resolve  itself  into  prose  :  already 
the  ear  revolts  against  the  metallic  iterance 
of  "  went  "  ;  but,  suddenly,  the  poetry  of 
the  idea  and  the  poetry  of  the  idea's  ex- 
pression becomes  one : 

And  now  my  manhood  goes  where  goes  the  song 
Of  captive  birds,  the  cry  of  crippled  things  : 
It  goes  ivhere  goes  the  day  that  unused  dies. 

In  some  of  those  chosen  sonnets  the  in- 
felicitous, because  not  the  convincing  or 
unconsciously  satisfying  word,  leads  peri- 
lously near  disillusion.  Others  have  an 
all  but  flawless  beauty  ;  and  we  hardly 
realise  whether  we  are  the  more  moved 
by  the  beauty  of  the  poet's  thought,  and 
the  sadness  whence  the  thought  arises  a 
lovely  phantom,  or  by  the  hushed  air  and 
ordered  loveliness  of  the  sonnet  itself — 
as,  for  example,  that  entitled  Twilight: 

A  sudden  pang  contracts  the  heart  of  Day, 
As  fades  the  glory  of  the  sunken  sun. 
The  bats  replace  the  swallows  one  by  one  ; 

The  cries  of  playing  children  die  away. 

Like  one  in  pain,  a  bell  begins  to  sway  : 
A  few  white  oxen,  from  their  labour  done. 
Pass  ghostly  through  the  dusk  :  the  crone  that  spun 

Outside  her  door,  turns  in  ;  and  all  grows  grey. 

345 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

And  still  I  lie,  as  I  all  day  have  lain, 

Here  in  this  garden,  thinking  of  the  time 
Before  the  years  of  helplessness  and  pain. 

Or  playing  with  the  fringes  of  a  rhyme. 

Until  the  yellow  moon,  amid  her  train 
Of  throbbing  stars,  appears  o'er  yonder  lime. 

It  is  this  pictorial  and  imaginative  vision 
which  animates  all  Eugene  Lee -Hamilton's 
best  work.  Take  an  historical  episode  such 
as  that  selected  by  him  for  one  of  his 
"  Imaginary  Sonnets  " — the  drowning  of  the 
prince  in  The  White  Ship.  The  theme  is 
one  hackneyed  by  many  a  balladist  and 
poet  :  but  see  how  new  it  is  become  by 
virtue  of  this  poet's  personal  vision  in 
union  with  dramatic  insight : 

.  .  .  Let  one  wide  wave 

Now  sweep  this  land,  and  make  a  single  grave 

For  King  and  people.     Let  the  wild  gull  skim 

Where  now  is  England  :  and  the  sea-fish  swim 

In  every  drowned  cathedral' s  vaulted  nave. 

As  in  a  green  and  pillar' d  ocean  cave. 
*  *  *  *  * 

A  nd  if  the  shuddering  pilot  ventures  there 

And  sees  their  pinnacles,  like  rocks  to  shun, 
Above  the  waves,  and  green  ivith  tidal  hair — 
Then  let  him  whisper.  .  .  . 

Let  this  brief  appreciation  end  with  a 
sonnet  given  now  not  only  because  of  its 
beauty,  but  as  characteristic  of  the  lofty 

346 


Eugene  Lee-Hamilton 

moral  standpoint  of  all  the  personal  writings 
of  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  : 

WINE  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

He  rode  the  flame-winged  dragon-steed  of  Thought 
Through  Space  and  Darkness,  seeking  Heaven  and 

Hell  ; 
And  searched  the  farthest  stars  where  souls  might 
dwell 
To  find  God's  justice  :  and  in  vain  he  sought. 

Then,  looking  on  the  dusk-eyed  girl  who  brought 
His  dream-filled  wine  beside  his  garden-well , 
He    said  :     "  Her   kiss  ;     the    wine-jug's    drowsy 
spell  ; 

Bulbul  ;   the  roses  ;   death  ;  .   .   .  all  else  is  naught  : 

So  drink  till  that." — What  drink,  because  the  abyss 

Of  nothing  waits  ?  because  there  is  for  man 
But  one  swift  hour  of  consciousness  and  light  ? 

No. — Just  because  we  have  no  life  but  this, 
Turn  it  to  use  ;  be  noble  while  you  can  ; 
Search,  help,  create  ;  then  pass  into  the  night. 


347 


THE  HOTEL  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 
STAR 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  is  a  question 
habitually  asked  by  companionable  tramps, 
chance  vagrants,  and  other  homeless  folk, 
blown  like  drifting  leaves  through  the 
thoroughfares,  the  myriad  streets,  along 
the  wide  suburban  roads,  by  the  bridges, 
into  the  parks  of  the  Great  City. 

The  answer  is,  in  effect,  "  At  the  Sign 
of  the  Moon,"  "  Gas-lamp  Lodging," 
"Bridge  Hotel,"  "The  Star  Inn,"  or— for 
among  the  homeless  there  are  poets  (as 
well  as  adapters  of  the  phrase  of  their 
Parisian  kindred) — "  The  Hotel  of  the 
Beautiful  Star."  These  frequenters  are 
often  themselves  called  "stars."  A  "star" 
is  a  man  who  "  lodges  free." 

No  one  knows  how  many  homeless  folk 
seek  such  shelter  as  is  to  be  had  o'  nights 
in  London.  I  have  asked  at  Scotland 
Yard  and  of  good  authorities,  but  every 
estimate    is    guess-work,    for   no    one   man 

348 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

can  tell  what  is  happening  each  night 
throughout  this  vast  nation  of  London. 
I  am  inclined  to  accept  as  approximately 
near  the  facts  the  opinion  of  a  police 
inspector  of  my  acquaintance  who  has 
had  altogether  exceptional  experience, 
not  only  as  a  metropolitan  constable,  but 
as  a  member  of  the  separate  force  known 
as  the  river  police.  After  much  consid- 
eration, he  said  he  would  reckon  on  an 
average  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand 
homeless  folk  nightly  in  London  during  the 
months  from  May  till  September  ;  about 
five  or  six  thousand  in  the  late  autumn 
and  the  early  spring  ;  and  anywhere  be- 
tween two  and  five  thousand  in  the  winter, 
the  average  falling  to  its  lowest — a  thousand, 
more  or  less,  according  to  the  weather — in 
January. 

"  Some  time  ago,"  he  said,  "  I  heard 
this  very  question  mooted  at  a  kind  of 
slum  congress.  A  gentleman  declared  that 
the  common  estimate  of  homeless  London 
was  grossly  exaggerated.  He  said  that, 
except  in  the  hot  midsummer  nights,  there 
were  never  more  than  a  few  groups  of  people 
in  the  parks,  a  score  waifs  and  strays  on 
certain  thoroughfares  where  seats  are  to  be 
had  here  and  there — as  in  the  Bayswater 

349 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

Road,  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  close 
alongside  the  iron  railings  of  Kensington 
Gardens  ;  another  score,  perhaps,  along 
the  Embankment  and  at  the  different  bridges 
—at  most,  a  hundred  or  so  in  all.  1  was 
about  to  speak,  when  a  Salvation  Major 
got  up  and  read  some  notes.  He  took  the 
breath  away  from  some  of  the  good  folk 
there.  When  he  had  done,  he  said  that  it 
was  only  Whitechapel  and  the  east  of 
London  he  was  speaking  of,  and  that  he 
could  double  or  treble  his  figures  by  in- 
cluding central  and  southern  London,  leav- 
ing aside  the  bridges  and  parks  and  the 
whole  mass  of  squares  and  gardens  and 
quiet  roads  from  the  Marble  Arch  to  Hamp- 
stead  Heath — which  itself,  in  summer,  he 
added,  was  never  without  a  large  contingent 
of  bush-sleepers.  He  wound  up  by  sug- 
gesting that  the  gentleman  who  had  dis- 
credited a  large  estimate  should  come  with 
him  on  his  night  rounds  for  a  week.  So  at 
that  I  got  up  too,  and  told  what  I  knew 
about  the  swarm  of  folk — a  mongrel  lot, 
I'm  bound  to  say,  what  with  the  Portugee 
mixture  \a  generalism  for  a  mixed  foreign 
population]  and  Malays  and  Chinese  and 
them  slippery  coolies — along  the  river - 
banks   from   London   Bridge   or   above   it. 

350 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

all  the  way  down  to  near  Tilbury.  In  some 
of  the  old  warehouses  and  sheds  they  lie 
like  rats,  many  of  them  below  beams.  I 
couldn't  give  notes  like  the  Salvation-Army 
Major,  but  I  could  see  that  even  what  I 
could  tell  was  an  amazing  surprise  to  all 
there." 

In  summer,  of  course,  and  especially  in 
early  summer,  one  can  best  study  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  this  wandering  and  un- 
certain tribe  of  the  unfortunate,  the 
wretched,  the  idle,  and  the  merely  migra- 
tory. It  is  surprising  how  large  a  number 
is  comprised  in  the  last  class.  It  was  not 
till  I  understood  this  that  the  great  dis- 
crepancy between  August  and  July,  the 
two  hottest  months,  became  explicable. 
Why  the  migrants  in  August  should  be  far 
fewer  than  those  in  May  and  June  and 
July  is  because  of  the  great  and  ever- 
growing demand  in  the  home  counties  for 
orchard-work  and  all  manner  of  farm- 
labour.  In  scores  of  ways,  indeed,  there  is 
employment  for  more  labourers  than  there 
are  applicants,  and  in  August  there  is,  in 
every  class,  a  far  greater  exodus  from 
London  than  in  any  other  season.  Thou- 
sands of  tramps,  wicker -workers,  tinkers, 
an  immense  motley  of  indiscriminate  trades 

351 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

and  no  trades,*  pour  from  the  city  in  all 
directions.  It  is  said  there  is  not  a  gipsy 
habitual  tramp,  or  "  Walker  Esquire  "  in 
London  in  August.  Again,  as  a  result, 
there  is  the  relief  in  the  congestion  of 
lodging-houses,  and  in  consequent  lowered 
terms. 

At  one  time  it  was  a  great  delight  to  the 
present  writer  to  wander  about  nocturnal 
London,  and  in  all  regions,  from  Eel-Pie 
Island  up  Richmond  way,  as  far  down- 
Thames  as  Rosherville  and  Gravesend ; 
from  the  great  commons  of  Wimbledon  and 
Blackheath  to  those  of  Parliament  Hill  and 
Hampstead  Heath  ;  from  these,  alas  !  grue- 
some deceptive  names  in  the  east  and 
north-east,  Cambridge  Heath,  London  Fields, 
Hackney  Downs,  and  Green  Lanes,  to  Brook 
Green  in  the  west  (where  there  is  not  much 
green  and  no  brook),  and  to  a  drear  locality 
rejoicing  now  in  a  new  name,  St.  Quintin 


<i 


*  Some  of  these  "lines  "  are  peculiar — such  as 
the  white-mice  line,"  "  the  parrakeet  or  paro- 
quet line,"  "  the  false-hair  line,"  "  artificial 
teeth,"  "  spectacles,"  "  Persian  and  tailless 
kittens,"  "  bull-pups,"  and  in  fact  almost  every 
imaginable  commodity,  from  the  "  real  lace  " 
and  the  as  "  real  ostrich  feathers  "  lines  to 
stomach  cordials  and  (awful  thought)  the  "  black- 
pudding  line." 

352 


The  Hotel  of  the  BeaiUifiU  Star 

Park,  hitherto  known  as  Wormwood  Scrubbs. 
These  were  the  outlying  gardens  of  that 
vast  hostelry  "  The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful 
Star."  Little  need  to  wander  there,  how- 
ever, except  for  variety  and  curiosity  ; 
for  the  inner  purlieus  include  the  many 
parks,  and,  above  all,  Hyde  Park,  and  the 
multitude  of  squares  and  "places,"  with  a 
host  of  equally  forbidden  yet  surreptitiously 
attainable  public,  private,  conspicuous, 
secret,  possible,  and  "  impossible  "  havens 
for  the  shelterless. 

At  all  times,  too,  the  river  and  the  river- 
side had  an  extraordinary  fascination.  By 
its  banks  many  "  stars  "  set  and  rise  in 
another  than  the  scientific  or  poetic 
sense. 

The  Thames  below  Richm,ond  is  not 
beautiful  in  the  conventional  meaning  of 
the  word,  but  the  artist  delights  in  its 
aspects  at  all  seasons.  By  night  it  has  a 
subtle  and  potent  effect  on  the  imagination, 
and  under  the  influence  of  moonlight  it  can 
take  on  a  beauty  or  a  mysterious  strangeness 
which,  once  realised,  is  irresistible.  The 
nights  of  May  and  June  are  the  loveliest.  It 
is  then  the  hayboats  come  down — ^great 
bargelike  sloops  laden  close  to  the  water 
with     their     fragrant     burdens — and    with 

III  353  z 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

brick-red  sails  shining  like  dull  bronze  in 
the  after -glow  or  in  the  dazzle  of  the  moon- 
shine. I  remember  the  fascination  these 
summer  visitors  used  to  have  for  Rossetti, 
the  front  rooms  of  whose  fine  old  house  in 
Cheyne  Walk  looked  on  the  river.  It  was 
a  sight  of  which  he  never  tired.  One  night 
he  told  me  a  delightful  story,  though 
whether  exaggerated  by  one  of  his  sudden 
whimsical  extravaganzas  or  literally  true 
I  was  at  first  doubtful.  It  appeared  that 
he  had  been  watching  a  great  "  hoy  " 
coming  down  stream,  and  was  admiring  the 
magnificent  effect  of  the  full  moon  on  the 
curves  of  the  river  and  on  the  hay-laden 
boat,  when  to  his  horror  he  saw  the  skipper 
and  mate  of  the  craft  run  forward,  drag  a 
man  from  under  the  thatch  of  hay,  and 
fling  him  into  the  water.  It  took  a  good 
deal  to  make  the  famous  painter-poet  leave 
what  was  practically  his  hermitage,  but 
what  had  just  happened  was  too  much  for 
him,  so  he  rushed  from  his  house  and  across 
the  broad  roadway  to  Cheyne  Embank- 
ment. A  little  crowd  had  already  collected 
and  was  watching  curiously — as  Rossetti 
thought,  with  callous  indifference — the 
sturdy  approach  of  the  unfortunate  swimmer 
against  tide  or  current,  or  both.     In  reply 

354 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

to  Rossetti's  indignant  exclamations,  a 
bystander  remarked,  "  Oh,  you  needn't 
worry  yourself,  guv'nor  ;  it's  only  a  bush- 
sleeper  comin'  in  to  Lunnon  by  way  of  a 
free  bed  o'  hay.  \Mien  they're  found  out 
they're  alius  chucked  like  that — that  is, 
arter  they  makes  their  choice."  "What 
choice  ?  "  Rossetti  asked.  "  It's  like  this, 
guv'nor.  Says  skipper  to  you  like,  '  You 
take  your  choice  an'  have  a  thorough  beltin' 
an'  a  run-in  at  the  end  o't,  or  over  you  go 
out  o'  this  ' — an'  in  nine  cases  out  o'  ten, 
arter  a  bit  of  scuffle  fust,  per'aps,  the  cove 
has  a  free  bath  gratis  for  nothin.'  " 

Meanwhile  the  bush-sleeper  had  been 
dragged  out  of  the  water,  and  stood  dripping 
and  disconsolate  as  a  half -drowned  rat. 
Rossetti  was  moved  to  compassion,  and 
told  the  man  to  follow  him,  which  he  did, 
and  soon  had  warmth  again  both  within 
and  without.  Afterwards  he  was  shown 
up  into  the  dim  studio,  and  it  must  have 
seemed  a  strange,  uncanny  place  to  this 
waif  from  a  world  more  remote  from  that 
in  which  Rossetti  lived  than  from  the 
every-day  life  of  five  hundred  years  ago. 
The  painter-poet  was  amused  by  his  dis- 
reputable guest,  for  here  there  was  no 
question  of  virtue  struggling  with  adversity. 

355 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

The  man  was  a  ne'er-do-well,  and  frankly 
admitted  it.  No,  he  said,  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  sleeping  indoors,  par- 
ticularly in  summer.  Where  did  he  sleep, 
then  ?  Oh,  anywhere  :  sometimes  in  a 
yard,  sometimes  under  the  trees  in  a  square, 
to  reach  which  he  had  surreptitiously  and 
unseen  to  climb  the  railings  ;  sometimes 
in  an  empty  or  new  house,  or  in  unfinished 
buildings  ;  sometimes  on  the  Embankment 
seats,  on  river-side  craft,  on  moored  steam- 
boats, on  wharves.  "  An'  you  don't  pay 
nuthin'  at  the  Sign  of  the  Bunch  o'  Stars, 
neither,"  he  added,  "  an'  that  suits  me  down 
to  the  ground,  not  havin'  too  much  o'  the 
shiny  to  waste  on  sich  like  things  as 
boardin'-houses,  to  say  nuthin'  o'  the 
sharks  as  keeps  them." 

On  a  recent  occasion  Rossetti  had  been 
told  about  the  "Hotel  of  the  Beautiful 
Star,"  and  he  was  delighted  with  the  name 
and  what  he  heard  of  its  associations,  and 
of  its  Paris  equivalent,  "  L'Hotel  de  la 
Belle  Etoile." 

But  if  the  midsummer  nights  are  loveliest, 
the  nocturnal  midwinter  Thames  is  often 
more  wonderful.  Mention  of  Rossetti  re- 
calls to  me  a  wonderful  sight  in  Januar^^ 
(I   think    in    1880,    but    possibly   in    1881), 

356 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

when  the  Thames  opposite  his  house  at 
Chelsea  was  more  Hke  the  Neva  in  spring 
than  our  sedate  London  stream.  Great 
masses  and  boulders  of  ice  came  crashing 
down  the  river,  grinding  at  the  piers  and 
bridges,  and  sometimes  huddling  and  leap- 
ing and  falling  back  like  a  herd  of  stampeded 
cattle.  The  papers  had  a  very  strange 
story  at  that  tim^e  about  a  "bush-sleeper." 
The  man  had  crept  on  board  a  straw-laden 
barge,  but  during  the  night  the  extreme 
cold  had  wakened  him,  and  he  had  appa- 
rently realised  that  it  was  better  to  tramp 
homeless  ashore  than  lie  where  he  was  and 
be  frozen.  In  trying  to  slink  along  a  narrow 
gangway,  slippery  with  the  frost,  he  must 
have  lost  his  footing,  and  as  he  fell  his 
head  struck  a  mass  of  ice  rearing  above- 
stream  like  a  buffalo  in  a  flying  herd,  and 
from  this  he  rolled  back  on  a  huge  slab 
that  went  sailing  down  stream.  About 
this  time  it  had  begun  to  snow.  Next 
morning,  far  below  the  Pool,  though  1 
forget  exactly  where,  the  great  slab  grounded. 
Some  men  noticed  a  strange  moulding  on 
the  surface,  and  when  they  swept  away  the 
snow  they  found  a  man  frozen  hard  to  the 
ice-block,  lying  as  though  asleep,  or  rather 
as  though  a  carven  monument  on  a  tomb, 

357 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

face  upwards,  and  on  his  back,  with  the 
hands  and  arms  lying  listlessly  idle  by  his 
side. 

But  it  is  not  all  tragic — I  mean  the  fate 
of  those  who  have  to  lodge  for  a  night  or 
two,  or  for  many  nights,  at  the  Hotel  of 
the  Beautiful  Star.  Let  me  tell  a  story 
I  know  at  first  hand,  though  I  must  not 
only  withhold  the  name  but  slightly  alter 
the  details,  yet  in  nothing  essential.  One 
mild  March  night,  some  years  ago — for 
even  March  does  sometimes  give  us  a  spell 
of  mild  hours,  though  this  may  be  mocked 
as  a  fantastical  glorification  of  our  English 
spring — I  was  on  Primrose  Hill  about  mid- 
night. This  eminence — it  is  no  more,  and 
to  call  it  a  hill  is  but  a  cockney  flattery — 
overlooks  Regent's  Park  on  the  north  side. 
I  was  given  to  mounting  its  grassy  slope 
occasionally  o'  nights,  partly  for  the  sake 
of  the  scintillating  view  on  fine  evenings 
and  the  sealike  mass  of  the  foliage  of  Regent's 
Park,  and  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and 
partly  for  the  free  play  of  air  at  that  re- 
latively high  and  uncontaminated  spot  of 
smoky  London.  It  used  to  be  a  favourite 
resort  on  warm  June  and  July  nights  for 
those  who  preferred  a  couch  on  the  soft 
grass  to  a  weary  tramp  of  the  pavements 

358^ 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

or  the  hard  mercies  of  a  stone  seat  or  iron- 
clamped  wooden  bench.  I  have  seen  more 
than  a  score  of  sleepers,  apart  from  the 
many  couples  who  lingered  long  and  late 
on  that  rather  bare  and  prosaic  Mons 
Amoris.  There  was  a  phrase  among  the 
many  medical  students  and  other  budding 
youth  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  who  lodged 
in  Albert  Street  and  Park  Street  and  the 
neighbourhood,  the  significance  of  which 
none  mistook.  When  one  remarked  that 
he  "  was  not  having  his  letters  regular  " 
at  the  moment,  as  he  was  putting  up  at 
the  Primrose,  we  all  knew  just  where  that 
inn  was,  and  understood  why  the  postman 
did  not  call  of  a  morning. 

Well,  on  that  March  night,  after  I  had 
sat  at  the  summit  for  a  bit,  and  had  my 
fill  of  what  I  had  come  to  see,  I  was  slowly 
making  my  way  downward,  when  abruptly 
I  went  headlong  over  a  recumbent  figure. 
The  blasphemy  which  ensued  was  peculiar  ; 
it  was  that  of  a  bargee  in  the  refined  voice 
of  a  girl.  An  apology  put  matters  right, 
and  a  hearty  laugh  induced  a  sudden 
camaraderie.  My  companion  sat  up,  and 
asked  me  if  I  too  were  "  on  the  green." 
On  hearing  that  I  was  not,  in  his  sense, 
he  said  "  Lucky  you,"  and  asked  if  perchance 

359 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

I  had  cigarettes  on  me.  I  had  a  pipe  and 
some  tobacco ;  but  this  would  not  do, 
it  seemed.  "  A  low  taste,"  he  observed, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  When  you 
come  to  see  me,  you  must  either  bring 
cigarettes  with  you  or  smoke  mine." 

"  So,"  I  answered,  "  after  all,  you're  no 
more  putting  up  at  the  Primrose  than  I 
am!  " 

"  Excuse  me.  I  am  not  a  liar.  I  have 
already  said,  or  implied,  that  I  am  putting 
up,  as  you  have  it,  in  these  very  quarters." 

"  What  about  your  house  and  ciga- 
rettes ?  " 

"  First,  let  me  tell  you  one  thing.  You 
may  not  be  inclined  to  believe  it,  but  I 
have  genius.  In  the  next,  I  have  pros- 
pects. In  the  third,  I  know  the  pangs, 
but  I  may  add  also  the  blessed  sureties, 
of  love.  Fourthly,  the  rest  follows  :  that 
in  due  course  I  shall  have  a  fit  habitation 
and  cigarettes ;  and  fifthly,  if  you  will  permit 
me  to  say  so,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me, 
when  I  know  your  name,  to  welcome  you 
at  that  house,  to  introduce  you  to  my 
wife,  and  to  offer  you  my  cigarettes." 

I  was  delighted  and  amused  with  m.}^ 
companion,  whom  I  took  to  be  a  genial 
and  harmless  crank.     I  had  occasion,  how- 

360 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

ever,  to  change  my  mind  before  long  : 
my  acquaintance  was  in  no  sense  a 
crank,  but  a  remarkably  true  critic  and 
prophet. 

Having  compared  notes,  we  fraternised 
further,  and  I  proposed  an  adjournment  to 
my  "  diggings."  On  the  way  thither  my 
new  friend  informed  me,  to  my  surprise 
— for  he  seemed  neat  and  clean  in  his 
dress  and  person,  though  obviously  his 
clothes,  and  those  tell-tale  articles  the 
boots,  were  beyond  the  stage  of  barter 
"  at  the  sign  of  the  Three  Golden  Balls  " 
— that  he  had  been  homeless  and  shelter- 
less for  more  than  a  week — for  nine  days, 
he  declared,  after  some  calculation.  He 
had  put  up  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful 
Star  in  Hyde  Park  till  the  east  wind  had 
set  in.  Then  he  had  tried  the  sheltered 
havens  at  Bridge  Hotel,  but  only  on  one 
night  succeeded  in  securing  a  seat  on  the 
wind  side.  He  had  tried  Regent's  Park, 
but  had  to  walk  to  and  fro  till  dawn  to 
keep  his  circulation  going.  For  tvro  nights 
he  had  managed  to  creep  behind  a  large 
stack  of  hay  in  some  open  stables  in  Albany 
Street.  Then  the  weather  had  become 
milder.  He  had  been  promised  a  walking- 
on  part  at  the  small  Park  Theatre  in  Camden 

361 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

Town,  but  one  cannot  get  a  room  on  the 
head  of  a  promise. 

"  So  I  thought  of  the  '  Star  Inn  '  once 
more,"  he  added,  "  and  ultimately  decided 
to  try  my  luck  at  the  Primrose." 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  my  friend 
remained  all  night  with  me,  contented!}' 
and  indeed  gladly  exchanging  the  grassy 
sods  of  the  Star  Inn  for  my  hardly  luxurious 
but  relatively  comfortable  sofa. 

I  had  imagined  from  his  allusion  to  the 
Park  Theatre  that  the  handsome  youth 
was  an  actor  or  would-be  actor.  I  was 
mistaken,  for  I  learned  that  he  was  a  clever 
writer,  and  a  painter  of  excelling  promise. 
I  do  not  mean  that  he  told  me  this,  though 
some  of  it  was  vaguely  hinted  and  some  I 
inferred  from  his  talk.  I  ascertained  it  in 
a  few  days.  An  extraordinary  series  of 
mischances  and  ill  luck  had  pursued  him. 
However,  in  less  than  a  month  from  the 
date  of  our  meeting  he  was  making  from 
five  to  ten  pounds  a  week  by  his  admirable 
drawings  for  a  popular  periodical  and  by 
his  various  journalistic  contributions.  Soon 
after  that  I  went  abroad.  On  my  return 
from  Italy,  some  six  months  later,  I  found 
that  my  friend  had  gone  to  Paris.  Hearing 
that  he  had  relinquished  his  pa^dng  artistic 

362 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

and  literary  connections,  I  feared  that  some 
strain  of  irreconcilable  bohemianism  had 
broken  out  in  him  again,  and  I  was  only 
half  reassured  when  I  learned  that  he  was 
painting  very  hard  but  in  absolute  isolation. 
Well,  to  come  to  the  point,  he  sold  a  picture 
at  the  Salon  the  ensuing  May  ;  had  a  bigger 
success  in  Munich,  and  then  in  London, 
and  finally  an  "  arrived "  success  at  the 
next  Salon  again.  My  work  took  me  there 
on  the  jour  de  vernissage,  and  to  my  great 
pleasure,  just  as  I  was  about  to  leave,  I 
came  suddenly  upon  my  friend.  I  had 
already  been  admiring  his  two  beautiful 
pictures,  one  of  them  a  portrait  of  great 
loveliness,  but  he  would  hear  of  nothing 
about  these,  but  only  of  myself.  In  a  few 
minutes,  I  found  myself  in  the  usual  little 
"  voiture  a  deux  places,"  and  being  driven 
rapidly  in  a  northerly  direction.  Within 
half  an  hour  thereafter  I  had  seen  "  the 
fit  habitation,"  smoked  the  first  of  many 
later  cigarettes  provided  by  my  host,  and 
been  introduced  to  his  charming  wife,  the 
beautiful  original  of  the  portrait.  I  had 
already  had  convincing  proof  of  the  genius. 
"  All  too  charming  to  be  true,"  doubt- 
less many  will  exclaim,  or  to  the  like  effect. 
Only,  it  happens  to  be  true. 

363 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

But  this,  all  the  same,  is  the  "  Prince 
Charming "  side  of  the  tragi-comedy  of 
the  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star.  It  is  very 
rare  that  one  of  the  sons  of  fortune  finds 
himself  a  lodger  in  that  barren  accommo- 
dation ;  still  rarer  that  so  dramatically 
swift  a  change  occurs  between  starva- 
tion and  homelessness  on  the  one  hand, 
and  affluence  and  fame  on  the  other  ;  and 
rarest  of  all  that  "  a  real  genius  "  (and 
particularly  one  who  candidly  admits  it  !) 
is  of  this  sad  company.  Yet,  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at — rather  the  opposite  way 
were  the  record  all  one-sided,  all  of  sadness 
and  misfortune  or  of  idleness  and  folly — 
that  in  the  course  of  many  years'  nocturnal 
peregrinations  in  a  great  city  like  London 
one  should  meet  the  brilliant  exception 
once  in  a  way.  Even  the  Star  Inn  has  its 
occasional  princes.  In  these  wanderings 
I  have  encountered  many  unusual  as  well 
as  interesting  types,  heard  many  strange 
tellings  as  well  as  far  too  many  narrati^^es 
of  a  sad  uniformity  in  misfortune,  a  dull 
monotony  of  wreckage.  There  I  have 
found  life  much  the  same  as  I  have  found  it 
in  other  circles  in  London,  or  in  Rome, 
New  York,  the  South  Seas,  the  Australian 
desert,   among  the  boulevardiers   of   Paris, 

364 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

or  the  Arabs  of  the  Sahara.  Moreover,  it 
is  easy  in  London,  as  in  New  York,  to  get 
into  a  specific  region  at  will.  One  can 
pursue  the  French  outlander  in  Soho  ;  the 
Italian,  Hatton  Garden  way  ;  the  Russian 
Jew,  beyond  Houndsditch  ;  the  Chinaman, 
the  Malay,  the  coolie,  each  in  his  own 
habitat.  There  is  a  place  of  strange  tales 
where  I  have  studied  much ;  but  this 
must  be  frequented,  for  a  like  purpose,  in 
summer,  or  on  fine  autumn  afternoons ; 
for  otherwise  one  does  not  find  communica- 
tive, or  even  in  evidence  at  all,  the  broken 
old  French  count  or  Italian  cavaliere,  the 
wistful-eyed,  hollow-cheeked  foreigner  who 
suns  himself  on  the  seats  in  the  small  grass - 
laid  heart  of  Leicester  Square,  under  the 
unspeakably  commonplace  and  affected 
statue  of  Shakespeare — "  mais  voila,  mon 
grand  maitre,"  as  an  old  French  play- 
wright, a  refugee  from  Paris,  said  to  me 
once,  ignoring  the  already  admitted  fact 
that  he  had  never  read  a  line  of  "  ce  divin 
Williams,"  as  his  countrymen  sometimes 
have  it. 

But  of  these  I  have  written  elsewhere. 
What  I  want  now  to  speak  of  is  neither  of 
the  night  wanderers  nor  of  the  brilliant, 
sordid,   picturesque,   vivid,   tumultuous,   or 

365 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

furtive  life  and  aspects  of  London  streets  by 
night — though  these  have  a  wonderful 
fascination  at  times,  and  at  certain  hours 
and  places,  as  at  dusk  or  in  a  moonlight 
night,  or  in  a  faint  fog,  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's,  the  Tower,  Somerset  House  from 
the  river,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  Water- 
loo Bridge,  the  great  serpentine  sweep  of 
the  Embankment — not  of  those  nor  these 
do  I  want  to  speak  now,  but  of  the  un- 
expected in  nocturnal  London  scenery. 

For  that  is  as  characteristic  of  London 
as  the  crowded  Strand,  Fleet  Street,  with 
its  ceaseless  under-throb  of  the  mightiest 
newspaper  pulse  in  the  world,  the  thronged 
gin-palaces  and  music-halls,  the  endless 
swinging  this  way  and  that  of  countless 
hansoms  and  omnibuses,  the  unparalleled 
marketings  of  Covent  Garden  by  flaring 
torch  and  spurting  gas-jet,  the  perpetual 
dismal  idleness  of  suburban  roads,  the 
restless  flow  at  all  hours  along  thorough- 
fares such  as  Tottenham  Court  or  Seven 
Sisters  Road,  Piccadilly  Circus  ("Siren 
Corner,  Hell  Road  "),  ablaze  like  a  mael- 
strom into  which  pour  Regent  Street, 
Shaftesbury  Avenue,  Coventry  Street,  and 
the  Haymarket,  and  the  long,  continual 
surge  of  Piccadilly  itself. 

366 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

And  what  and  where  is  this  unexpected 
scenery  ?  Well,  come  away  from  all  that 
brilliant,  pulsating  London,  from  all  that 
commonplace  Suburbia  ;  come  away  even 
from  the  tramp  who  lodges  at  "  Gas-lamp 
Inn  "  on  London  Bridge,  or  "  At  the  Sign 
of  the  Moon  "  on  the  Embankment,  and 
follow  the  loafing  or  unfortunate  nightfarer 
into  the  special  purlieus  of  the  Hotel  of  the 
Beautiful  Star.  But  no — let  us  leave  this 
motley  company,  and  the  furtively  un- 
obtrusive "  battalion  of  the  unjustly  fallen," 
as  poor  James  Thomson  of  the  City  of 
Dreadful  Night  called  the  unfortunate,  the 
outcast,  and  the  bewildered  and  baffled 
homeless.  For,  it  should  be  said,  tramps 
and  vagrants  cannot  well  go  into  closed 
and  guarded  parks,  or  float  like  barn-owls 
over  the  river-reaches. 

For  there  are  places  where  the  night 
farer  can  take  his  rest  untroubled,  and 
where  in  the  summer  he  does.  There  are 
tracts  of  Hyde  Park  where  the  cry  of  the 
constable  is  not  heard  in  the  land,  nor  the 
warning  note  of  the  keen-eyed  park -ranger. 
After  dark,  on  those  mid-summer  nights, 
in  many  wide  spaces  of  Hyde  Park  and 
Regent's  Park  (as  of  remoter  Hampstead 
Heath  and  Wimbledon  Common),  the  moon- 

367 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

light  falls  alike  on  clusters  of  still  sheep 
and  on  scattered  dusky  shapes  that  are 
men  and  women. 

The  real  unexpected  in  London  is  what 
we  do  not  readily  associate  with  a  great 
metropolis  :  serenit}^  quietude,  silence, 
space,  beauty — a  beauty  as  of  the  remote 
countr}^  a  spaciousness  as  of  the  desert, 
a  silence  as  of  ocean  in  calm.  Here,  per- 
haps, is  wherein  lies  the  deepest  fascination 
of  nocturnal  London.  One  may  cross 
Waterloo  Bridge  at  midnight,  and  think  of 
the  stream  of  living  eyes  that  one  poor  tor- 
tured dweller  in  the  City  of  Dreadful  Night 
was  wont  to  see — nothing  but  hurrying, 
eddying,  eyes  ;  or  of  how  the  Romany 
Rye  bartered  there  with  a  strange  woman 
in  the  dusk  ;  or  one  may  stand  on  London 
Bridge  and  think  of  Hood's  sad  lyric  of  her 
who  drifted,  and  of  her  thousand  sisters 
who  have  since  drifted  beneath  it  ;  or  of 
Rossetti's  picture  of  Found,  and  those  who 
are  sometimes  found  there  but  always  too 
late  ;  or  of  Wordsworth's  noble  sonnet, 
filled  with  the  vast  silence  and  ineffable 
dignity  of  the  sleeping  city  at  daybreak  : 

Silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky. 

368 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

But  one  can  escape  the  floating  populace 
of  the  bridge  and  the  more  or  less  trite, 
even  when  beautiful,  literary  association, 
by  going  further  afield.  Literally  "  afield  " 
at  first,  if  we  pass  by  Tyburn  Gate  or  go 
towards  that  vast  region  of  Suburbia  which 
once  was  a  great  forest  called  St.  John's 
Wood,  reaching  from  what  now  is  Maryle- 
bone  to  the  confines  of  Middlesex. 

On  a  hot  night  in  July,  when  travelling 
thunders  have  been  loosening  long  sudden 
avalanches  of  wind  through  a  barren  desert 
of  stagnant  air,  I  have  lain  below  a  haw- 
thorn-bush in  Regent's  Park,  and  dreamed 
I  was  far  from  London.  For,  harsh  in  the 
silence,  came  the  same  restless  cry  of  cranes 
I  had  heard  in  the  shallow  Moorish  waters 
beyond  Tunis  ;  then,  bewilderingly,  rose 
the  screams  of  the  great -skua  and  the 
cormorant,  recalling  twilit  shores  in  the 
wave -washed  north  ;  then,  savagely,  the 
aow-aow-aow  of  a  wolf,  the  sullen,  snarling 
howl  of  the  jungle  tiger,  or,  abruptly,  the 
sickeningly  near  roar  of  a  hunger  or  heat- 
maddened  lion.  But  I  was  in  London, 
after  all ;  and  the  finch  sitting  in  the 
hawthorn  over  her  second  brood  did  not 
stir,  nor  did  the  little  cluster  of  sheep,  like 
gray   boulders    cropping    above    the    grass, 

III  369  2  A 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

edge  further  from  the  elm  shadows  into 
moonlit  safety.  I  had  forgotten  where  I 
was,  and  had  been  startled  ;  where  I  lay 
was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  enclosed  trees 
of  the  Zoological  Gardens,  a  brief  distance 
from  the  lion-houses  and  the  great  open- 
air  enclosures  of  the  tigers  and  panthers. 

On  another  occasion  I  was  with  a  friend — 
a  Kensington  Gardens  ranger — and  after 
closure -hour  wandered  idly  through  the 
vast  glades  and  silent  avenues  where  the 
Palace  Gardens  trend  to  Hyde  Park.  That 
May  evening  I  had  heard  the  wood-doves 
calling  amid  the  green  twilight  of  the  oaks, 
the  thrush  and  blackbird  fluting  mellowly 
from  sycamore  and  plane,  the  rooks  cawing 
over  the  bare  tops  of  the  tapering  elms, 
the  sudden,  strident  clamour  of  the  mallard 
in  his  dashing  flight  to  the  water.  As  the 
shadows  deepened,  white  moths  fluttered 
between  the  lower  branches.  Amid  the 
tall  limes  the  black-cap  tried  over  his 
shadow-dance  song.  Suddenly,  from  the 
dense  leafy  wilderness  of  a  gigantic  beech, 
a  nightingale  broke  into  stuttering  short 
cries,  and  then,  as  with  a  recovering  in- 
drawn breath,  was  still  a  moment,  and  in 
another  moment  flooded  the  dusk  with 
little  rippling  cries  and  up-caught  ecstasies 

370 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

of  a  rapt  oblivious  trouble.  The  moon  rode 
yellowly  above  the  prairie  of  Hyde  Park, 
as  we  walked  past  the  fountains,  so  rococo, 
and  yet  so  charming  in  their  fantasticality, 
and  in  the  moonshine  so  beautiful  and 
suggestive  of  old  Italian  romance.  Slowly 
we  strolled  down  the  western  bank  of  the 
Long  Water,  hearing  the  coot  and  sheldrake 
call  from  the  remoter  shallows  of  the 
Serpentine.  Robins  and  long-tailed  tits 
rustled  among  the  lilacs,  dewily  fragrant. 
Before  a  spray  of  laburnum,  of  a  delicate 
dripping  gold  in  the  moonlight,  two  great 
ghostly  moths  danced  fantastically.  Sud- 
denly a  harsh  screaming  came  from  the 
rhododendron  forest  on  the  opposite  bank. 
A  whir — wish — whir-r-r-r,  and  first  one  pea- 
cock, then  another,  then  another,  rose,  and 
with  majestic  meteoric  flight  swept  with  their 
vast,  dusky  fans  in  a  long  curve,  one  billow- 
like ascent  again,  then  to  sink  cloudily  amid 
the  branches  of  the  elms  where  they  love 
to  roost.  That  night  I  could  not  leave  this 
far-remote  wilderness  of  wild  life  and  natural 
beauty.  Yet,  it  was  London.  Long  after 
midnight  I  crossed  the  dim  prairie -land  of 
Hyde  Park,  now  passing  huddled  sheep, 
now  a  huddled  figure  below  an  oak  or  on 
the    open    grass.     Never    till    then    had    I 

371 


The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star 

realised  adequately  this  less  strange  of  the 
two  great  silences  of  London  :  the  solitary 
centre  of  Hyde  Park  and  the  solitary  still- 
ness round  the  Bank  of  England,  "  in  the 
heart  of  the  world." 

In  the  grey  daybreak  I  passed  the  dim 
vapour-dappled  mere  of  St.  James's  Park, 
and  saw  the  Whitehall  palaces  looming  in  a 
new  stately  beauty.  A  little  later,  at  a 
sweep  of  the  Embankment,  while  the  sea- 
birds  were  fluttering  sidelong  up  stream 
from  the  marshes,  and  filling  the  air  with  a 
strenuous  viking-music,  ringing  clarionlike 
through  the  City  of  Mist,  as  London  in  her 
few  breathless  moments  of  poetry  so  trul}^ 
is,  my  gaze  was  caught  by  a  sudden  golden 
flashing  light.  It  was  the  first  shaft  of 
sunrise  breaking  against  the  great  gold  cross 
of  St.  Paul's.  The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful 
Star  was  closed  for  another  day. 

1 901. 


372 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

The  critical  and  reminiscent  papers,  herein 
gathered  together,  spread  over  a  period  of 
eighteen  years,  from  1884  to  1902.  The 
volume  is  largely  autobiographic  inasmuch 
as  it  records  the  impressions  and  memories 
concerning  writers  of  that  date  with  whom 
William  Sharp  was  in  touch  ;  all  more  or  less 
his  intimate  friends,  with  the  exception  of 
Matthew  Arnold  whom  he  met  but  thrice. 

The  memorial  paper  on  Philip  Bourke 
Marston  was  wi-itten  in  1887  as  a  Preface  to 
the  blind  poet's  For  a  Song's  Sake ;  the 
appreciation  of  Browning  forms  part  of  the 
last  chapter  of  my  husband's  monograph  on 
Browning  in  The  Great  Writers  Series. 
The  opening  paper  on  Matthew  Arnold  is  a 
portion  of  an  Introduction  written  for  a 
selection  of  that  writer's  poems  issued  in  the 
Canterbury  Series ;  to  the  same  Series 
belongs  the  collection  of  the  Poems  of 
Eugene  Lee-Hamilton,  for  which  William 
Sharp  wrote  the  Biographical  Study ;  and  it 
is  to  Messrs.  Walter  Scott  Ltd.,  the  publishers 

373 


Bibliographical  Note 

of  these  four  volumes,  that  I  am  indebted  for 
permission  to  herein  include  their  prefaces. 

The  review  of  Marius  the  Epicurean  was 
printed  in  Time,  1885  ;  the  Personal  Re- 
miniscences of  Walter  Pater  and  Some 
Reminiscences  of  Christina  Rossetti  appeared 
in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  former  in 
December  1894,  the  latter  in  June  1895, 
and  Rossetti  in  Prose  and  Verse  in  the 
March  number  of  The  National  Review, 
1887. 

The  article  on  the  novels  of  Thomas 
Hardy  was  written  for  The  Forum  in  1892, 
prior  to  the  publication  of  fude  the  Obscure  ; 
and  that  on  George  Meredith :  an  Estimate 
of  his  work  in  Prose  and  Verse,  appeared 
simultaneously  in  Good  Words  and  in  The 
New  York  Times,  Saturday  Review  (July  i, 
1899).  The  appreciation  of  Sir  Edward 
Burne-Jones  was  contributed  to  The  Fort- 
nightly Review  in  August  1898,  shortly  after 
the  death  of  that  painter ;  and  the  essay 
on  Swinburne  was  written  to  preface  a 
selection  of  that  poet's  work,  arranged  by 
William  Sharp,  and  published  in  1901  in  the 
Tauchnitz  Collection  of  British  Authors. 
Although  The  Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star — of 
which  two-thirds  were  printed  in  Harper's, 
October  1900 — differs  in  character  from  the 

374 


Bibliographical  Note 

other  contents  of  this  book,  I  have  included 
it  because  it  is  reminiscent  of  the  author 
himself  and  shows  a  side  of  his  nature 
that  I  have  scarcely  touched  upon  in  my 
Memoir  of  him,  but  may  I  think  be  of 
interest  to  his  readers. 

I  wish  to  take  this  opportunity  of  ex- 
pressing my  appreciation  of  the  courtesy  of 
the  Editors  of  the  above-named  Periodicals, 
through  which  I  am  enabled  to  include  these 
autobiographic  papers  in  the  present  volume 
of  the  selected  writings  of  William  Sharp. 

Elizabeth  A.  Sharp. 


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